


To Love A Stray

by d_e_s



Category: Assassin's Creed, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: Alternate Universe - Desmond survives the end of AC3, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - You Only see in Color when you meet your soulmate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:00:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 51,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5665345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_e_s/pseuds/d_e_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>desmond didn't die when he touched juno's orb. instead, he was given a second chance to become something he'd never previously had the opportunity to be: normal. only, this chance didn't come without a price. in a world where color only exists after you meet your soulmate, desmond was happy to live a life of gray, until delsin rowe unwittingly shattered that world and forced him to make yet another choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. # 1C1C1C

**Author's Note:**

> this entire work is dedicated to the person i get to call both my best friend and my girlfriend. without you, this world would have never existed, or would have been left to rot in my drafts. i'm forever grateful for you, and i never expected to be so torn up over what had once been just another crack pairing.

From the moment he’d been born, he’d been running.

He’d been running from the shadows lurking around every corner, just waiting for him to slip up so they could once again wrap their cold fingers around him. He’d been running from the people who thought they could live his life better than he could---dictating what he should be doing, and dictating how he was supposed to live without so much as a thought as to what he wanted—for as long as he could remember, he had been thrust into a world of motion, unable to stop in fear of getting steamrolled. He’d been running, unaware of the fact that his destiny had already been written, and that his story was supposed to end in tragedy. For the good of the world, he was supposed to pay the ultimate price: he was supposed to die. 

Only, he hadn’t died. Maybe it was a twist of fate, or maybe it was a well-deserved stroke of luck, but he had not died. He had woken up, and he honestly still wasn’t certain how to feel about that. On one hand, he was possibly getting a second chance at life; when everyone you had once known assumed you were dead, you didn’t have to worry too much about people coming to look for you. It was kind of nice, actually—he almost felt like a normal person, something that was a novelty for him. On the other hand, though, he was tired. He’d been tired for a long time, and the idea of dying had been something of a relief to him. 

It was just another day in the life of Desmond Miles: whenever he took one step forward, he was forced to take two steps back. He had saved the world, but the only people who knew about it couldn’t know that he was still alive. Although still alive and breathing, he couldn’t scratch the feeling that he wasn’t supposed to be, that he had somehow cheated the universe, and the universe was waiting for the right moment to correct this error. Maybe some things still needed to be done, or maybe he could chalk it up to his paranoia; whatever the reason, he had gotten a second-chance at life, and he wasn’t about to waste it. 

Ah, another stop light. With a grimace—the motion of braking always sent white-hot pain through his arm, stealing the breath from his lungs and briefly squeezing his chest until he feared his ribs might break—Desmond slowed his motorcycle to a stop. The smart option would have been to walk to work. However, he had never made any claims for intelligence, and the fact that he often wound up in less than desirable situations highlighted that fact. Besides, if he were to be honest, Seattle traffic was mild when compared to the traffic of New York. Not to mention that the people in Seattle were a lot more fun to watch, too. There was always something going on, and someone was always more interesting than him. Here, he was nobody. Even with ace bandages tightly wrapped around his right forearm, he never drew much more than a glance when he was on the street. It was absolutely liberating. For a brief moment, a smile curved Desmond’s scarred lips, though it was debatable as to how genuine it really was. Though he enjoyed the anonymity offered by the Seattle streets, it was debatable as to if he was truly happy. 

He didn’t have time to dwell on that thought, though, as the light had changed. Without a shred of hesitation, he guided himself through traffic, waving at the few people who bothered to flip him off or honk in protest as he cut in front of them; for him, this was the new normal. With a sharp turn, he tucked himself away in a dimly lit alley. There were probably better places to park, but self-defense was never something he’d worried about, and he didn’t want to have to pay to park every time he went to work. This was fine, and the seclusion meant his bike didn’t get scratched up. His helmet securely tucked under his arm, a soft jingle of keys was heard, before Desmond let himself into the club. The helmet and jacket were tossed into his locker, and the smile that had initially just lingered on his face stretched into an easy-going grin. 

Previously, he had been known as one of the best bartenders in New York, and he was quickly making his way to becoming one of the best bartenders in Seattle. At least, his alias was, heavily aided by the fact he’d always held a sort of attraction with people. With chocolate-brown hair, a skin tone that made it seem like he constantly had the perfect tan (despite the fact the sun was something of a legend in Seattle) and honey-gold eyes, he had a grin that made ladies swoon and a wink that made guys uncomfortable—or so he’d been told. Just as he’d been told that while Seattle was mostly bathed in gray, the city nights were almost magical on clear nights. Whether or not it was true, he simply didn’t know. 

In fact, he had laughed when someone had attempted to describe Seattle: he lived in a world without color, and the individual had been attempting to describe things in colors he’d only read about. To say he lived in a world without color wasn’t entirely true, though. He lived in a world where every color he saw (if you could call what he saw “color”) was simply a different shade of gray. He could not see the color of the stoplights, but rather had memorized the pattern of when to stop and when to go. The same concept applied for a lot of how he lived his life; it wasn’t recognizing colors as much as it was recognizing patterns. 

So to call Seattle “gray” to someone whose entire life could be described as that—it was truly ridiculous.

If you asked the locals, they would say that that was normal. They would say that the only time you got to see the world as it “really” was, was after you’d met your soul mate. It was a concept he found laughable—both the idea of soul-mates existing and the idea of being able to see anything other than gray—though his laughter was not without residual bitterness. Once, he had thought he’d found his soul mate. She had had soft hair and bright eyes, and an intelligence that had absolutely astounded him. She had seemed to genuinely care for him, in a time when it felt like he was just another number to everyone. And what was worse, was that he’d thought she’d loved him too. 

He had been terribly, terribly wrong. She had—no, he wasn’t going to go down that road. For a moment, his grin dropped, and his lips curled with distaste as a familiar distaste coated his mouth. His slip was brief, though; as soon as he walked out onto the floor, that grin was back on his face, his eyes and body language relaxed. There were certain elements of his past life that he’d enjoy forgetting, and she was one of them. Thankfully, with this job, forgetting was at least slightly possible; there were a few perks to being able to drink on the job. As long as he didn’t get intoxicated, nobody was going to bat an eye at him for having a few drinks. With the beat of the music echoing the beat of his heart, Desmond stepped behind the bar, and took a moment to simply survey what he considered his domain.

It was too early for his usual crowd, but that didn’t mean the place wasn’t alive and well. The new guy (he honestly couldn’t remember his name) had done a good job in keeping the customers happy; already, there were a plethora of people on the dance floor, drunkenly attempting to keep beat with the music and being more than a little disgusting in their attempts to dry hump one another. There were the customary squatters, sitting in the corner with their drink looking like they were pretending to be in some sort of movie rather than in a bar in one of the rougher districts, and—oh, look, someone new.

While a majority of the current faces of the people currently in the club, they all fit into a predictable mold, as they were all the same type of people that he had seen thousands of times before. They were typical, and they were boring. This guy was something different, and he wasn’t certain if he was more interested in the fact that his fashion sense was absolutely horrid—seriously, a vest and a hoodie?—or in the fact that he absolutely did not look old enough to be in here. For a moment, amber hues sparked with something almost foreign, and he was quick to wave off the approach of New Guy (whose name he should probably learn sooner or later.) Whatever was up with this kid, he was interested; he’d take this order. 

“Christ, finally, I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me. Almost started to take it personally,” the stranger snorted dryly, his arms idly crossing against his chest as he took a moment to visibly size up the bartender, “but now that I’ve got your attention, all is forgiven," dismissively waving off of the words, he shifted so he could rest against the sleek counter top, before he tapped his fingers against the smooth surface and continued, "Anyway, I’m willing to try pretty much anything, and I’ve got money to spend, so hook me up with whatever you consider your best work.” An satisfied grin punctuated the stranger’s already-arrogant words, and for a brief moment, Desmond couldn’t help but wonder if his confidence was compensating for something. 

Despite the stranger’s haughtiness, and the fact he was quickly beginning to regret getting himself into this situation, Desmond found he couldn’t help but chuckle slightly in amusement. The kid had a weird sort of charm to him, though there was no way he was about to tell him that. The last thing he needed to do was further inflate this guy’s ego. Scarred fingers tapping against the shot glass he had picked up before walking over, Desmond couldn’t help but give the guy a shrug, before absently picking up a clean rag and wiping at the inside of the already-clean glass. This punk didn’t look a day over twenty, and he wasn’t about to actually serve him anything alcoholic. That didn’t mean he wasn’t willing to play this stupid little game, though. The day shifts were always slow.

“I’d love to help you out, but I can’t do anything without seeing some ID first,” Desmond uttered, a small smile still hovering on his lips, “and while your flattery isn’t half bad, you should work on it a bit more if you’re trying to actually impress me. Those lines don’t work on people who aren’t drunk.” 

“Ouch, sweetheart. Honest compliments are flattery now? I’ll make sure to keep my mouth shut next time, I don’t want to be giving people the wrong idea,” the kid scoffed, though he was all too willing to hand over the plastic. 

Taking the ID, Desmond took a moment to slowly look it over: the name read as Rowe, Delsin, and he was supposedly twenty-four. Yeah, right, like he was going to believe that. Keeping that small smile on his face, Desmond sat the ID back down on the counter and gingerly sat down the glass he had been polishing, before he nodded in Delsin’s direction, as though he was pleased with what he had been given. In terms of fake IDs, this one wasn’t half bad. The kid had put some genuine effort into this—or he’d paid someone a good deal to make, it was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

“Alright, I’ve got something you’re going to enjoy. I don’t serve this to many people, usually because they’re not quite as charming as you and forget that there’s more to drink than shots and beer, so consider yourself lucky. I’m in a good mood today,” Desmond chatted as he strolled to the other end of the bar, cracking open the small fridge they had under there, and grabbing an ambiguously dark bottle. Technically, they didn’t serve this, meaning he was going to take a personal hit (as he had been the one to stock these) but he found that he really didn’t mind. Opening it, he casually strolled back to Delsin and slid it in front of him, a dark brow raised in what could only be called anticipation.

“Beer? That’s your big specialty? Man, that's disappointing after all the chatter I’ve heard about this place—“ Abruptly, Delsin cut off, blinking rapidly as he took a moment to stare at his drink, attention caught by the boldly embossed “root beer” printed on the very bottom of the label. “—and I can see why you don’t serve this to just everyone.” Quickly, Delsin raised the bottle to his lips and promptly drained it before setting it back down onto the counter with a pointed bang, and shot the bartender—his ID badge said his name was Ennio, and it was a damned shame he had to be such an dick because he was kind of cute—an unimpressed look. “You done being an asshole? C’mon, I’m being serious here.”

“Yeah, and so am I,” Desmond retorted, though his voice never rose above its usual nonchalant tone, “I don’t serve to minors. I don’t care how much you paid for that ID of yours; I’m not going to serve you alcohol. You’re lucky I’m even letting you stay in here. I could get in trouble for just doing that.” 

“You’re really going to do this? I got past your bouncer-who looked way scarier than you-and you’re saying he’s wrong? I’m legitimately sitting here asking for your most expensive drink, and you’re going to turn away a profit? That’s hardly a viable business model—and I didn’t pay for that ID!” Feeling rather offended—though he had owned a few fake IDs in the past—Delsin sat further forward in his chair and settled his gaze on Ennio. Having grown up with a cop for a brother, he knew all about the power of the police stare; the second this guy had refused to give him a drink after he’d presented a legal ID, he’d made it into a challenge. And he really didn’t like losing, especially to assholes. 

And, had Desmond not grown up with an even bigger asshole of a father named William Miles, maybe the stare would have worked. Maybe he would have believed the kid, but he’d seen a lot worse in his life, and it was going to take more than a simple stare to shake him. Instead, he promptly stared back at the other, dark brow still raised as he took a moment to finally size Delsin up. Despite this confrontation, and despite the fact that Delsin was irritating him more than amusing him at this point, he couldn’t shake the fact that he was still oddly interested in this guy. This conversation was fun, albeit annoying, and it had been a long time since he’d last had some entertainment. It was weird, if he were to be honest, both his unusual interest in Delsin and the fact that this was the most fun he’d had in a long time. 

“Do you like hearing the word 'no'?” Desmond questioned, a soft sound of amusement escaping him despite his attempted restraint, “because I can say it for you in a few more languages if that’s the case.” Absently, he reached for the (now empty) bottle of root beer, the inability to be idle keeping him from simply standing and having a conversation.

Eyes widening, Delsin quickly lunged forward, deftly snagging the empty bottle with a juvenile satisfaction. “Nu-uh, I’m going to keep this. You’re not the only one who can be an asshole, buddy. If having me around bothers you so much, you can just give me a drink and I’ll leave.” It wasn’t the most effective way to barter—in fact, most of it was riding on the hope that this guy was as uptight as he seemed—but after the failure of the police stare, he wasn’t sure where else he could legally go with this conversation. 

Delsin’s words fell on deaf ears, though. For just a moment, Desmond’s hand had brushed against Delsin’s, and in that moment, he had seen. There had been no warning, no safety net or protective barrier—in an instant, his previously gray world had been lit up, and for the first time in his life, he had been able to truly experience the world. For just a second, he had seen it all: the bright, flashing lights of the club, and the equally bright outfits of his customers. He had seen the bright colors of the dance floor, just as he had seen the startlingly dark eyes of the youth sitting in front of him. Just as fast as it had come, though, the sudden burst of color was gone, and the grays that had previously made up his world returned. 

Only, instead of being comforted by their familiarity, Desmond found he couldn’t help but ache for the colors he had previously seen. Amber gaze wide, Desmond stared at Delsin. He stared at the cause of this sudden disarray—and though it wasn’t logically possible, he could have sworn that in that moment, the club went silent, with only the noise being pounding of his heart that pounded in the back of his mind. 

“—Yo, you alive? You've been mute the past couple of minutes, and I’ve been delivering some great lines.” Delsin said, strangely bothered by the sudden quiet. Something had happened to the guy, and while he wasn’t sure what it was, he couldn’t help but be unsettled by it. Recently, whenever something strange happened, it meant something even stranger was going to happen really soon. 

With a jolt, Delsin’s voice broke through the rapid pounding of his heart, and effectively bathed the club in noise again, Desmond offered a sharp nod as a hollow smile immediately worked its way across his face. 

“Uh-yeah, I’m fine. I just have a tendency to zone out whenever I detect an overabundance of whining,” Desmond uttered, that hollow smile still lingering on his expression. No, he wasn’t fine—he was far from fine, actually—but he had never been one to admit to that, and especially not to a stranger who he would likely never see again. The weight of what had just happened was beginning to settle on his shoulders, threatening to suffocate him; all of a sudden, the old wives tales didn’t seem quite as absurd as they once had. Most people would have been ecstatic if they had found their soul-mate. He was faced with an overwhelming sense of dread, because unlike him, Delsin seemed completely unfazed by what had just happened.

What did it mean if only one person saw in color? 

He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about how he’d probably been fucked up more than he’d thought by the Orb. There was a lot in his past that he had tried to leave behind him when he’d started this new life, and there was more than one reason he stubbornly continued to wear the ace bandages around his right arm. 

“I don’t believe you,” Delsin uttered, leaning forward against the bar, one hand resting against the smooth wooden surface, the other still stubbornly clutching the empty bottle of root beer. 

Quickly, Desmond leaned away from Delsin, utterly unwilling to make contact with him again. Whatever had just happened wasn’t something he wanted to repeat. It would be easier to believe it was a fluke if he didn’t repeat it, it would be easier to deny it had ever happened if he didn’t put himself in a situation where color could once again sneak into his vision. Desperately, he scrambled to pull his thoughts together. Usually he was better at pretending he was okay (as he’d had a lot of practice at it) so his sudden stumble was nearly as alarming as the previous incident.

Before he had a chance to collect himself, though, there was a commotion. Bright eyes snapped to the front of the club, brows furrowing and distaste coloring his expression as he took in the vividly hued outfits of the DUP agents, unease burrowing itself into his spine. There was something about this militia that reminded him far too much of the Templars, and he was willing to bet their cause was just as tainted. Hurriedly, he turned his gaze away from the door, and instead picked up the empty shot glass he had been cleaning earlier. As much as he wanted to sit and make dirty faces at the DUP agents, such activities were often highly frowned upon, and the last thing he wanted to do was draw attention. 

Finally, he returned his attention to Delsin, his thoughts no longer as jumbled, and mind in a slightly milder panic than before. Only, where there had once been a punk kid giving him a hard time, there was now nothing but empty space. It seemed that at some point in the commotion, the other guy had gotten bored and taken off—and he was shockingly disappointed. He hadn’t had the chance to convince him that he really was fine, and he hadn’t had a chance to act as though he was perfectly okay. The fact he would likely never see him again, surprisingly enough, also didn’t sit well with him; perhaps he was coming down with something. Giving a quick shake of his head, Desmond turned to pay attention to the growing stream of customers, though not before noticing something on the surface of his bar.

\--it was an ID card.

Not just any ID card, though, but the ID card Delsin had flashed him earlier. Attention flitted up and down the plastic for just a moment, before a sharp laugh abruptly escaped him, and he pocketed the ID.

The kid was going to need this back, wasn’t he?


	2. #1F1F1F

It was raining again. Really, that wasn’t all that surprising though, seeing as Seattle wasn’t exactly known as the city of sunshine. Yet, Desmond found he couldn’t help but find a bit of melancholy in the rain, in the way the dampness seemed to cling to his bones, burrowing itself within his jacket and wrapping around him until he was all but suffocated. Rain had always been gray, as had the city, both due to the near-constant overcast weather, as well as his small vision problem. Once upon a time he had simply accepted the endless waves of gray; now though, he couldn’t help but wonder what he was missing. Again and again, his mind returned to that brief moment where his world had been bathed in color, to that brief moment where he had been able to see. It was a lot harder to accept a world of gray when he knew what he was missing. What was he missing? What was it like to see in color? He couldn’t help but be a touch resentful that he had no answers to his questions—even if someone told him, he wouldn’t be able to accurately picture it anyway—and a touch envious of the fact that there were people out there who didn’t have to simply wonder. 

Moodily, he made his way down the steps of his apartment, mindful of the few that tended to get slick in the rain. This was hardly an upscale part of Seattle: his windows were old and rattled in the wind, his carpet was torn in a few places and boasted a variety of fairly questionable stains, and he wasn’t entirely certain that his stove actually worked properly, but it was cheap and the landlord didn’t care too much about making sure all the proper paperwork was in place, and actually preferred cash to any other sort of payment. So while the place was probably a health hazard more than one way, it was his home, and he wasn’t about to complain. He’d lived in worse—in fact, this was probably the best place he’d lived in in the past four months. It wasn’t the back of a van, and it wasn’t strapped to the Animus, so he really couldn’t complain. 

With a shake of his head, Desmond gave a heavy sigh and reached a hand up to aggressively shove through his short hair, desperate to try and shake off the rather bitter mood he’d fallen into. It was harder for him to be positive when he didn’t have someone to act for, though. When he was around people, it was easy to pretend, because that’s what they expected. He needed to be happy, because he didn’t want to worry anyone—when he was alone, who was there to try and fool? Finishing his brief trek down the somewhat treacherous stairs, he jammed his hands into the pocket of his jacket, fishing for the keys to his motorcycle. He had the day off today, and he was getting tired of living off of dry cereal. Maybe he would get some groceries or something, even though he was limited to whatever he could shove into his bag, considering his only form of transportation was walking or taking his bike. Not to mention the fact that he had no real pots or pans, and a stove that only worked when it felt like it. Perhaps it would be smarter to order in, but if there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was sitting in his apartment with nothing to do. When he had nothing to do, he started to think, and when he started to think, things started to get bad. It was better to just avoid that whole situation. 

Truth be told, he really hated his days off. 

Quickly, Desmond pulled his keys out of his pocket, only to realize that they weren’t the only things in his pocket. Onto the ground, a slip of plastic dropped onto the cement, startling white against the monotonous color of the sidewalk. Quietly, Desmond bent down and picked up the slick piece of plastic, instantly recognizing it as an ID. It wasn’t just any ID though, it was the one Delsin had left at the bar last night. Attention skimmed up and down the ID, studying the small details printed on the card, as well as the look of wear to it. The corners were no longer sharp, and there was a curious warp to the ID that suggested it had been through more than one rough patch. He had been quick to assume that it had been a fake, yet as he took a moment to take in the ID, he found he couldn’t help but doubt his initial assumption. Huh, if this was real, then the kid really would need it back, wouldn’t he? He’d never actually dealt with the DMV (save for the time he got arrested by Abstergo after he’d registered for his motorcycle license) but everyone seemed to have some sort of horror story involving how long it took to get anything done there. 

Slowly, Desmond straightened, brows furrowing as he tucked the ID back into the pocket of his jacket. Hadn’t he already decided that he didn’t need to get groceries, considering how his stove didn’t like to work? He still had another box of cereal in his cabinet, he wasn’t really suffering yet. Delsin didn’t live all that far out from where he lived, so the drive really wouldn’t be anything out of his way. It seemed a lot nobler than just leaving the ID in the club’s lost and found, anyway. There was no guarantee that the kid would even be back, and he’d really be doing him a huge favor by just nonchalantly dropping it off, right? That was the logic he was going to use, anyway, seeing as he’d already made up his mind. With a sense of purpose, it was suddenly easier to ignore the morning’s previous bitterness, and determination guided his steps as he made his way into the parking garage, a hollow point smile replacing his previous frown. Some part of his gut argued that this was a bad decision, and if he were to be honest, he’d admit that this visit wasn’t just because he wanted to be a good guy and return the ID.

No, what he wanted was something a bit more complex: he wanted resolution. He wanted to know if what had happened in the club last night had been a fluke, and in order to do that, he needed to touch Delsin again. Only then would he have a definite answer as to whether or not Delsin Rowe was his so-called “soul-mate.” He just needed one more chance, one more excuse to touch him, and he was absolutely terrified as to what the result would be. Last night, Delsin had shown no reaction when their skin had brushed, something he had been trying really hard not to over-think, but this wouldn’t be the first time the universe had pulled something like this. He wasn’t certain he could handle another Lucy.

For a moment, his step faltered, uncertainty slamming itself between his ribs, only to be twisted with each frantic beat of his heart. There was no doubt in his mind that, if this happened to be another Lucy, it would destroy him; was this really a risk that he wanted to take? Fingers curled tightly around the keys in his hands, before he released a slightly shaky sigh. Was it a risk he really wanted to take? No, but he didn’t have any other choice; he was done living in a world of “what ifs.” He would never be able to move on if he didn’t take this chance, and that wasn’t something he was prepared to deal with. With that motivation, Desmond settled himself on his bike and kicked it to life, refusing to linger any longer in fear of talking himself out of going.

The drive itself was almost peaceful; what had previously been an all-consuming rain had reduced down to little more than a gentle mist, and it was the wrong time of day for the rush that inevitably clogged the city roads. Weaving between monotonous lights, it took him no time to find the address listed on the ID; it was a smaller area in the downtown that somehow managed to rival the quality of his apartments. With a soft huff of what could have been amusement, Desmond pulled his bike into the run down parking lot, mindful of the bits of trash blowing in the breeze, and sat back, taking a moment to survey his surroundings. It definitely wasn’t the nicest part of Seattle, in fact if it had been dark he likely would have been a bit more reluctant to leave his bike here, but he’d seen worse. In fact, it almost reminded him of home, complete with the weed vending machine at the corner of the complex. If this was really where Delsin lived, then he definitely was over twenty one, and he probably owed him a drink and an apology for being such an asshole the other night. That didn’t mean he was actually going to give him either of those things, but he could pretend to at least consider it. 

With a careful dismount, Desmond was quick to straighten his back and square his shoulders, holding his head high with a confidence that definitely wasn’t feigned; he’d had his share of attempted muggers, all of which who had ended up as a crumpled mess on the pavement. If there was one thing his past had given him, it was self-defense. Trekking up the stairs—amused by the fact that they shared a similar wear pattern as the ones he had grudgingly walked down this morning—he gave a soft exhale, sudden nerves constricting against his chest and tingling in his fingertips. This was, without a doubt, an incredibly stupid idea. In fact, this was probably going to be near the top on his list of stupid ideas, considering he’d only met this guy once at the bar. He’d come too far to turn back now, though, and the only thing he could do was accept the fact that he’d made yet another bad decision. It was kind of the story of his life after all, wasn’t it? One bad decision meets another, until the only options he had left were bad ones? The fact that Delsin happened to live in apartment number seventeen really sealed the deal on this, anyway.

For a moment, Desmond found he couldn’t do much more than simply stare at the slightly worn numbers on the door, humorless laughter threatening to squeeze past his tightly closed lips. He had never been a believer in fate—no, he believed everyone was free to make their own decisions, and that’s what he had ultimately decided to fight for—but sometimes it was really hard to ignore certain coincidences. Whether or not this was some sort of omen was entirely debatable, but he’d already made up his mind: he knocked. The sound was a curiously hollow one, and for just a moment, he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone was home. If Delsin was out, then he could simply slip the ID under the door and head back to his apartment and simply call today something like a wasted venture. If only he was that lucky.

“Hold on, hold on, good grief. You realize that it’s still sleeping hours for some people,” a familiar voice grumped from behind the door, followed by the quiet click of locks being disengaged, before the slightly warped door was thrown open, and Delsin stood just inside the apartment.

Wherever the kid had gone after he’d left the bar, it’d done a number to him. Disheveled wasn’t even close to the correct word for describing his appearance, but it was the best Desmond could do considering his surprise. For a moment, a dark brow rose as he simply studied the other, another small smile briefly curving his lips as he bit back a snort of laughter; he had interrupted the guy in his home in the late afternoon, after all. Who was he to judge?

“I would have called first, but you didn’t exactly leave a number. Guess this was a bit more effective, though, considering it got me to come all the way out here,” Desmond chuckled, holding the ID badge between his index and middle fingers, dark brow still arched in amusement, “figured you might need this. If it’s a fake, it’s really well done, and was probably pretty expensive. If it’s real, then you don’t want to have to deal with going down to the DMV just because you ended up losing your license at a bar. Trust me, it doesn’t make for that great of a story.” The words fell easily from his lips, filling out a familiar mold that had long-since been established; what he had been lacking this morning (a person to pretend for) had been briefly filled by Delsin’s company, and it felt good to be able to pretend again. 

“—if you would have called, I would have at least dressed up a little bit more. I’ll get you my number, that way we can prevent this whole thing from happening again,” Delsin managed, a smile quick to cross his expression as he studied his unexpected—though not entirely unwelcome—visitor, “and don’t think I didn’t catch that little “if” of yours. It means you doubt your incorrect judgment, as you should be.” While he wasn’t naïve enough to believe he was about to get an apology from this guy, he couldn’t help but gently prod him about it. Truth be told, he was almost excited to see him in a weird sort of way; it’d been a while since he’d had company that didn’t somehow relate back to that whole “conduit” thing. 

“Guess I do owe you some sort of thanks, though,” Delsin sighed (jokingly) as he reached out for the license, “as much fun as it is to sit in a waiting room for hours at a time, it’s really not that high on my to-do list.”

He couldn’t do it. Initially, Desmond had planned to let his fingers linger on the ID, in the hopes that they would brush with Delsin’s in an attempt to recreate what had happened last night. Yet, as he watched Delsin reach out, he found he simply couldn’t do it; in an instant, anxiety slammed into him with a brute force, and he was quick to relinquish his grip on the license before their fingers even had the slightest chance of brushing together. He was afraid, and for the first time in his life, he acted on his fear. 

“Nah, we’re good,” Desmond uttered a heartbeat too late in an attempt to draw attention away from the awkward exchange, and hands were stuffed into the pockets of his jacket to hide the sudden shake in his fingers, “don’t need to thank me. Or give me your number, actually. We’re good.” He realized after that his response was too forced to sound natural, and that he should have played the easy going game that he had been excelling in just moments before; already, he was looking for a way out of his situation, fear crawling through his body and racing through his veins as he looked for an escape route. Too many of his senses were screaming danger at him now, screaming at him to get out of this situation—when had he gotten so fucked up? 

“Harsh,” Delsin gasped, a hand jokingly coming to press against his chest as though Desmond’s words had mortally wounded him. He had noticed the sudden jolt in the other’s demeanor, the too-quick retreat that had kept them from making even the slightest bit of physical contact, and he would be lying if he said he wasn’t curious as to why the behavior had changed. Had he done something? Unintentionally sparked when he was speaking? No—if he’d given his whole “conduit” thing away, he had the feeling this guy would have probably reacted in a very different manner. He was probably over thinking everything. That didn’t stop him from being curious, though. 

Shaking his head with a small snort, the native casually waved the bartender in. “C’mon, I just ordered a pizza not too long ago. Should be here kind of soon, at least take a slice or something before you zoom off to whatever it is you do when you’re not at the club,” Delsin goaded, though he couldn’t help but be slightly alarmed by just how much he sounded like Betty in that statement. Truth be told, he just wanted to get the other to relax; he was like a taut rubber band, waiting to snap at the slightest application of more tension. Definitely not someone he wanted out on the streets, especially with how trigger happy the DUP agents tended to be. Asshole or not, there was something peculiar about this guy, and he wasn’t going to be happy until he figured out exactly what it was. Maybe he just needed to shake his hand to figure that out, but he doubted that would be an easy feat. 

At the slight rumble of his stomach, Desmond was suddenly reminded of his food situation, and the fact that he’d actually yet to eat today. The offer was a tempting one, and his hesitation in accepting the offer (as opposed to politely refusing it) told him exactly how much he wanted it. For a moment, Desmond studied Delsin, his hands still jammed in his pockets as he leaned back on his heels in an entirely contemplative manner, shoulders briefly slumping in a shrug. He wasn’t about to turn down free pizza, and it wasn’t like he had any other plans for the day. Before he agreed, though, there was one thing he needed to do. 

Abruptly, Desmond focused on the surroundings, attention sweeping from building to building, before once again settling on Delsin, watching as a sudden blue aura coated him, as well as his vicinity. It wasn’t exactly true that he was stuck in a world of grays; this was the one time he could see in color, albeit his range was incredibly limited. Eagle Vision had lied to him before, yes, but it was something that he’d come to more-or-less trust in situations such as these; his instincts were telling him that Delsin wasn’t about to harm him, and that the neighboring area was about as safe as possible. As suddenly as he had engaged it, Desmond allowed Eagle Vision to once again fall back, watching as the blue instantly disappeared from his surroundings, and more importantly, from Delsin. Dimly, he registered a sharp pain in his right arm, stretching from his wrist and all the way to his elbow, but it was easily ignored. It was a small price to pay for a sense of peace. He’d deal with the repercussions later; right now he had some free food to take advantage of.

“I mean, if you’re offering free pizza, I can’t really say I’m the kind of guy to deny that,” Desmond chuckled, previous hesitance swept under the rug as though it had never happened, “you meant free, right? Because I don’t really have any cash on me right now, and I did just save you from hours of waiting.” 

“Yeah, yeah, it’s free. I’ll make sure to kiss the ground you walk on whenever you’re here for saving me from the horrors of the DMV, too. That way we can call it even,” Delsin joked, stepping back from the door and padding deeper into the apartment. Whether or not he was actually followed—well, he could only hope. “By the way, we never really got properly introduced,” Delsin huffed as he flopped down on a worn-down couch, a hand coming up muffle a massive yawn. 

Hesitation momentarily weighed down Desmond’s steps, before he stepped over the threshold, quietly shutting the apartment door behind him. A sense of relief washed over him as he finally stepped out of the open, and away from the prying eyes of the city; even here, so far away from where everything had happened, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. They were waiting for him to mess up again, and he was getting awfully tired of running from things he couldn’t see. 

“Ennio,” Desmond muttered after a moment, raising his gaze to study Delsin, “yeah, guess we didn’t really get a formal introduction back at the bar. I don’t know if “nice to meet you” is really the right way to go here, but hey, for the sake of being polite, I’m going to go with it.” It was another joke, though perhaps poorly executed. 

“Ennio, huh? That’s a unique one. I don’t need to tell you this, but “for the sake of being polite,” I will: my name is Delsin, and I’m probably the most interesting guy you’ll ever get a chance to meet.” Hopefully, though, Ennio would never get tied up in what made him so “interesting.” He’d already done enough damage on the reservation, the last thing he needed to do was drag an innocent bartender into the crossfire. 

It was hard to bite back his scoff, but Desmond somehow managed; if he scoffed, he’d likely have to explain why he’d done so, and he wasn’t exactly in the mood to get into his family history right now. His head hurt too much to come up with a plausible lie, and telling the truth was entirely out of the question; he didn’t want to mix some bystander in a blood stained feud. 

“You’re forgetting that I bartend at a somewhat shady bar in downtown Seattle. If you think you’re going to come in as the most interesting guy I’ve ever met, you’ve got some pretty big shoes to fill. Get a person drunk enough, and they’ll start talking about anything to try and get some free drinks,” Desmond muttered, taking a moment to inspect the living room, before going and sitting at the opposite end of the couch, well out of reach for any sort of accidental physical contact. It was funny, almost, that he was being a coward about figuring out whether or not touching Delsin allowed him to see in color, considering that had been the whole point of his impromptu visit. Maybe it wasn’t so much comical as it was pathetic, but he wasn’t about to think about it too hard. 

The apartment itself was rather empty; the living room was decorated with a rather run down couch, a coffee table that had seen much better days, and a TV that was potentially as old as him, complete with VHS player in the bottom. There were a few loose clothes scattered against the back of the couch, and what appeared to be some sort of stencils on the floor, but overall? It felt like this place wasn’t so much a home as it was a place to rest for the night—a situation that he was more than familiar with—and he couldn’t help but feel a touch more curious about Delsin. He’d heard of young adults being broke, especially in a city like Seattle where everything was ridiculously over-priced, but this didn’t feel like a simple lack of funds. 

Despite the vacancy of the room, there was something odd piled next to the TV: VHS tapes. Not just any VHS tapes, though; from the looks of the covers (which were torn and well-used) they were Disney VHS tapes. He hadn’t grown up on Disney, and by the time he’d gotten out and gotten a chance to potentially watch the movies, he simply hadn’t seen the appeal behind them; the fact that Delsin owned what appeared to be a complete collection surprised him for some reason. He’d profiled the kid as someone who’d enjoy more action and adventure, rather than cartoons and clichéd romances. 

“Is that a somewhat complete collection of Disney movies?” Desmond questioned, hoping to potentially embarrass Delsin just a little bit, though he doubted it would be that easy.

“Somewhat complete collection?” Delsin reiterated, disbelief mildly coloring his tone and expression as he twisted to stare at Ennio as though he had just uttered some sort of blasphemy, “excuse you, if you’re going to try and bullshit something, get your facts straight. That’s a complete collection, thanks. You don’t half-ass Disney, sunshine.” At the surprise in Ennio’s expression, the native couldn’t help but wonder if those words—fighting or not—had been genuine, and if this guy had lived under some sort of rock for this childhood. “You do know about Disney, right? Greatest producer of childhood movies? Inspiration for so many children? Mickey Mouse?”

“This may come as a shocker to you, but not everyone grew up watching cartoons when they were a kid,” Desmond scoffed, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace, “Chill. I was just wondering how the hell you managed to get your hands on VHS, considering blu-ray has dominated the market for a while now.” At least, that’s what Shaun had told him before they’d parted ways; he wasn’t certain how accurate the statement was anymore. Somehow though, he’d managed to offend Delsin with his comment, and he was a bit more concerned with not getting in a fight than about the accuracy of his statements. The last thing he needed was to get into one with someone innocent, even if they started it. 

“Cartoons?” An amused laugh tinged his voice as he looked at the other quizzically, “Disney movies are not just “cartoons.” What hole have you been buried in where you have not once sat through one in your entire life?” Unbeknownst to him, Ennio had uttered words truly worth fighting over, though Delsin was desperately trying to give him the benefit of the doubt; maybe this guy just hadn’t actually seen a single one, and had no idea what he was talking about. 

A sudden knock at the door interrupted the potential grudge match, making the pair jump slightly. Blinking once or twice, Delsin shot the elder a demanding look—this conversation was not over—before making his way over to the door, pulling some crumpled bills out of his pocket; promptly shoving the money at the delivery guy, before he took the food and stalked back to the couch, dropping the box between them. 

Baffled by Delsin’s response—they were just movies, after all—Desmond settled back against the couch and helped himself to a slice of the pepperoni pizza, shoulders slumping into a shrug. “Guess I really haven’t seen their films,” he muttered after a moment, “didn’t really grow up on them, you know? Parents weren’t all that fond of TV, believed it rotted your brain and all of that nonsense.” It wasn’t exactly the truth, but it was as close as he was going to get to telling it right now; how else was he supposed to explain that his parents had used the television to make him as anti-Templar as possible? How else was he supposed to explain that he hadn’t been allowed to do things like watch cartoons as a kid without revealing that his childhood had been absolutely insane? There were some things you didn’t talk about the second time you met a person, and those were definitely pretty high on the list. Right up there with politics and religion. 

Slightly less unsettled by Ennio’s declaration (it was amazing what eating could do for the mood), Delsin took a moment to settle further down into the frayed cushions, humming out around a bite, “You know what this means, right? You’ve gotta stay here and watch at least one movie with me; otherwise I cannot let you leave in good conscious. Judging by the fact you’ve already agreed to stay long enough to eat pizza, I’m guessing you don’t have a whole lot to do today. Plus, it’s raining again, and it’ll be much warmer if you just stay in here for a movie or two.” Admittedly, the last point wasn’t the strongest one to make—it was always raining here—but that wasn’t what he’d focused on. Like it or not, this guy was going to stick around for a little while to watch something with him, so now the only question was which movie they were going to watch. 

Startled by the other's declaration, Desmond couldn’t help but frown; while there was validity in Delsin’s statements, he didn’t want to immediately admit to the fact that he didn’t have anything else to do today. Nor did he want to admit to the fact that he didn’t see the point in watching a something when everything would be in varying shades of gray. Still, the offer to stay for a bit longer was a tempting one, and he really didn’t feel like heading back to his apartment quite yet. He hadn’t accomplished what he’d come here to do, and with that in mind, he couldn’t justify just leaving. 

“Yeah, guess I could stay for a little while longer,” Desmond muttered after a moment, before he helped himself to another slice, “don’t really see the point though, considering everything’s going to be gray.”

“Hey, I know VHS quality isn’t the top of the line anymore, but the color works just fine on these guys,” Delsin mumbled, once again relaxed against the sofa after hearing Ennio’s promise to stay, “I’d quote some examples, but I don’t want to spoil anything for you.”

“Wait, you see them in color?” Desmond questioned, disbelief halting the bite he had been about to take out of his food, amber hues wide in blatant surprise, “like, you’ve always seen them in color?”

“Yeah? Why do you seem so surprised by this? I get you grew up without a TV, but movies have been in color for a long time. I don’t think we were even around when black and white movies were popular. At least, I wasn’t, I don’t know how old you are,” Delsin quirked, laughter curving his lips as he playfully looked Ennio up and down, though the humor was quick to die when he saw that Ennio was definitely not joking.

“I’ve never seen in color,” Desmond uttered slowly, mind desperately scrambling to put the pieces of this puzzle together, “the world’s always been gray for me.” It had always been gray for him, until last night, when he’d brushed against Delsin’s hand and received yet another shock in his life. He had wondered what it had meant when the native hadn’t reacted to the touch, and now he knew. The answer posed more questions than solutions, though: what did it mean that Delsin already saw in color? That was undoubtedly why he hadn’t reacted the previous night, yet he found more anxiety than solace in the reason.

“Oh, shit, I—didn’t realize,” Delsin managed, a hand coming up to sheepishly run against his beanie, “yeah, guess that’ll kinda ruin the magic.” For a few moments, awkward silence settled between them, before Delsin got to his feet and walked over to the stack of movies, deftly yanking one from the pile. “Doesn’t matter, though, we’re still going to watch one. You’re not going to leave this place without doing so, and Mulan is a classic.” Quickly, he popped the VHS into the ancient TV and grabbed the cracked remote, before throwing himself back onto the couch. 

Mind still reeling from Delsin’s previous statement, Desmond could do little more than stare at his strange companion, before slowly turning his attention to the slightly fuzzy screen, blinking slightly. He had assumed that, after the reveal of the fact he (as well as many others) didn’t see in color would put a halt to their movie, but apparently Delsin was serious when he said he wasn’t going to let him leave without a showing, even if he was missing out on a good portion of it because he simply couldn’t see it. 

Admittedly, though, even without having the visual awe of the animation, it wasn’t that bad. While not overly impressed, Desmond found himself rather surprised by how much he enjoyed the movie, despite the fact that he was never going to get “Make a Man out of You” out of his head. He had calmed from his previous shock, and while his questions still didn’t have a satisfying answer, it was easier to play along now that his mind wasn’t reeling. With a yawn, he rolled his shoulders, before he shot Delsin an easy going sort of smirk and crossed his arms against his chest, shrugging.

“Guess it wasn’t that bad,” he joked, “I mean, for a cartoon. My mind has been changed a tiny bit, but I’m still not that impressed.” It was a subtle attempt to get invited back, if only to get an answer for the questions hovering against his lips, though he wasn’t entirely certain that it was the best approach to take. Good thing he was excellent at making bad decisions. 

“Again with the 'cartoons,'” Delsin snorted, “but that shows your mind can be changed, meaning you’re not entirely hopeless. It also means that you’re going to need to come back and get through the rest of this pile with me. Time to crawl out from under the rock you’ve been living under, bud. I’m bringing you up to speed, and all I ask is that next time you buy dinner.” Had Ennio been a little less prone to flinching, he would have reached out and ruffled his hair, but even he understood that there were boundaries that shouldn't be crossed. Instead, Delsin opted to flash him a grin, amusement bright in his usually dark eyes. It was a not-so-subtle invitation to come back, and despite everything, he found himself hoping that Ennio would accept it. 

“Yeah, yeah, you seem so certain that you’ll convince me,” Desmond said as he slowly got to his feet, “but fine. If you think watching more of those movies will turn me into some sort of Disney fanatic, we’ll watch them.” Entertainment lightened his words, and he found that he couldn’t help but grin back at Delsin, a motion that felt almost surprisingly natural. It had been a long time since he’d had this much genuine fun, and he was a little reluctant to leave. Dusk was fast approaching though, and he wasn’t willing to risk leaving his bike in such a questionable area without streetlights. 

“You’re out of pizza, and I’ve taken about all of the fairy tale romance I can stomach for now,” Desmond chuckled as he stepped towards the door, “guess we should call it a night.”

Stepping after him, Delsin gave a mock-exasperated sigh, before he nodded his head and opened the front door. “The movies aren’t great because of the romance, but I’m going to let that one slide this time, just because I happen to like you. Guess you’re right, though.” He had spent the day ignoring his responsibilities for once, and it had been great. As soon as he’d opened the door, he’d felt it though: the urgency that so often guided his steps, the knowledge that there were people depending on him, and he couldn’t afford to just sit around because he didn’t want to think about what he had to do for a little while. Today had been great, yeah, but he couldn’t ignore what he needed to do, and he couldn’t put Ennio at risk. 

As he stepped out onto the hallway, Desmond couldn’t help but shake his head a little, a soft chuckle escaping his scarred lips. He wasn’t certain when he would come back, as if he associated too much with Delsin then he’d likely draw attention to him, and he didn’t want to get an innocent in trouble if Abstergo caught up with him again. They had once before, and while he wasn’t making the same stupid mistakes he once had, he wasn't willing to risk someone else’s life. The last thing he needed was Abstergo taking an interest in the youth, and putting Delsin through the same horrors they’d put him through.

Offering a nod, his hands were once again shoved in the pockets of his jacket. He’d never been good at saying goodbyes, simply because there was something a little too final in the word. 

“Glad to hear my charm has rubbed off on you,” Desmond joked, “I’ll see you around, Delsin.”

“If I visit the bar again, I’m expecting a drink this time,” Delsin chimed as he leaned against the door frame, watching as Ennio slowly backed up, “I think I’ve proved my worth after tonight.”

“Better ask for a different bartender then, all you’ve done is make me wonder how young you really are,” Desmond teased, a slight laugh escaping him as he carefully made his way down the steps, “see you around,” he repeated.

“See you around,” Delsin called, before reluctantly stepping back and once again closing the door. He’d wait a few moments before he went out again; today had been a good day, and he didn’t want to risk involving Ennio in anything by dashing out as a conduit and potentially drawing DUP attention. 

As he listened to the soft click of a latch being put back into place, Desmond felt the smile fall from his face, as the realization of everything that had happened slumped his shoulders. He was no closer to answering his question than he had been this morning; in fact, if anything, he was more confused than before. The headache he’d gotten when he had used Eagle Vision earlier in the day was back with a vengeance, and the steady throb in his arm hadn’t ever fully gone away; it had been a good day, but he could only ignore life for so long until he was forced to deal with the fact that he was just as clueless as he had been the first time he’d run away from the Farm.

It was a scary thought. Climbing onto his bike (which had somehow not been stolen), Desmond forcefully slid his helmet over his head, and kicked into gear. The vibrations from the motorcycle did nothing to ease the pain in his head or the ache in his arm, but like with every other time he chose to ride, Desmond ignored it. He would be home soon enough, anyway. With less enthusiasm than when he’d arrived, he pulled into the sudden flow of traffic, the glow of brake lights almost mocking the fact that he wanted to get back home. 

The way back was much longer than the trip to Delsin’s place, but traffic could only last so long. That’s what he told himself every time he got caught in rush hour, anyway. He wasn’t entirely certain how valid the statement was, but eventually he always ended up getting home. It had long-since gotten dark by the time he was finally able to park his bike, and the creaks and groans of his apartment complex were enough to put him on edge. Paranoia had rooted itself deep within him, and his instinct was to automatically assume the worst of each twisting shadow and settle of the building. Almost too quickly (he was going to trip one of these days) he made his way up the apartment stairs, and pressed himself against the wall beside the door to his apartment. It was all routine at this point: he would wait before entering, listening for the slightest noise, listening for the slightest sign that someone was in there. He’d yet to actually have that problem, but he wasn’t about to slip up and get caught over something as small as failing to check his surroundings. Had he not used it earlier, he would have simply engaged Eagle Vision, but his life had never been that easy.

It was only after his heartbeat calmed that he allowed himself to open the door, and step into the barren apartment. It was empty of any visitors, wanted or otherwise, and he couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. Hurriedly shutting the door behind him and engaging the locks, Desmond took a moment to carefully shrug off his jacket, tossing it onto the single couch that decorated the living room, before gingerly turning his attention to the thick wraps around his right arm. 

As expected, what had started off as a clean white bandage was now stained with a familiar crimson; the only comfort he had was the fact that judging by the coloration, he’d probably stopped bleeding a few hours ago. Regardless, he couldn’t allow the bloodied bandage to sit on his arm. With a slight shake to his hands—no matter how often he did this, it always unnerved him—Desmond forced himself into the bathroom, his first aid kit still on the counter from this morning. Bitterly, he unwrapped the bandages, stomach twisting as he surveyed the damage to his arm. Had it just been a burn, maybe he wouldn’t have been as disgusted.

This was no burn, though. All along his arm, black coated his skin, surprisingly smooth despite the fact that he should have been badly burnt after choosing to release Juno. He wasn’t burnt, though he desperately wished he had been. Instead of a burn, a circuitry pattern had branded itself into his skin, stretching from his fingers, and all along his forearm, glowing and shimmering in the same way the Apple shimmered. At least, it had started at his forearm. Each use of his abilities—be it something as simple as Eagle Vision or something as complex as harnessing the abilities that had once been locked inside the Apple—caused the markings to grow, to spread further against his body. After today, the marks had extended as far as just past his elbow, glowing and twisting in a way that screamed danger to him. Had it been a simply been a burn, he could have ignored it; how the hell was he supposed to ignore this?

He wasn’t certain what this was. Maybe it was a strange after effect of releasing Juno, or maybe it was the price he had to pay for cheating death and living when he should have died. Whatever it was, there was only one thing he was certain of: it would kill him. 

With a humorless laugh, Desmond gently drug a wash cloth down his arm, wiping away the old blood, before cutting another length of bandages and swiftly covering the freak show on his arm. Despite the fact he’d bled, there was no wound to tend to, no other evidence of the fact that he’d been injured, aside from the fact that the markings had spread. White quickly replaced black, as Desmond once again worked to cover up something he probably should have been more concerned about. Maybe he would have cared more, had he not already accepted the fact he was living on borrowed time. He was never supposed to survive, it was only suiting that Juno and the Apple would come back to destroy him in the end.

Moodily, Desmond stepped out of the bathroom and threw himself down onto the couch, a heavy sigh escaping him. The restlessness he had felt previously had long-since disappeared, replaced instead by a gnawing worry. He was worried about the fact that Delsin already saw in color, but he was more worried about what would happen if he continued to involve himself with the other. He couldn’t deny that today had been fun—that for the first time in a long time, he’d felt normal—but his actions always came with a price. 

Eyes sliding closed, Desmond drifted asleep with the events of today playing in his mind. He had never been a fan of movies, but he was pretty sure he could come to like movies. Maybe he’d be the one to buy the pizza next time, in a sort of good faith gesture. It was then that Desmond realized something: try as he may, he wasn’t going to stay away from Delsin. There would be a cost, and when the time came, he would be the one to pay it, but he wasn’t going to turn his back on this. 

He fell asleep with Delsin on his mind and in his dreams.


	3. #4D4D4D

The city had gone to hell. What had previously been simple tension between the DUP agents and the citizens had escalated into a full lockdown; civilians were afraid to leave their homes in fear of being obtained under the suspicion of being a “bioterrorist.” Rumors were flying that people—innocent people—had been taken from their homes and never seen again under the suspicion of “housing bioterrorists” and being “sympathizers.” Meaning that they hadn’t agreed with the propaganda the DUP had been shoving down their throat, and the DUP had taken it upon themselves to make an example out of the rebels in an attempt to maintain fear. 

It was a tactic he was entirely familiar with. Abstergo had tried to do the same thing when they had thought he was alive, painting his face across every flat surface (have you seen this man?) in an attempt to label him as some sort of terrorist. That brutality had been mild compared to what the DUP agents were capable of, though; was it ironic that he had only seen the government officials acting as terrorists, and not the people they were after? The bio terrorists weren’t the ones destroying this city; they weren’t the ones making innocent people afraid to leave their house because they faced the fear of facing a wrongful death. Of course, if he voiced that, he’d most likely be killed (again.) Sometimes, he couldn’t help but wonder if it’d be worth it. 

Aggressively, Desmond slammed the blinds to his living room window shut, agitation all but radiating off every tensed muscle. Even with the window shut, he could hear the wail of ambulance sirens, undoubtedly responding to yet another DUP attack, and it only set him further on the edge. He hadn’t dared to leave his apartment ever since things started to get bad; he had no doubts that he would be stopped, and with the circuitry that ran up and down his arm (as they would likely wonder what he was hiding under his bandages) they would be inclined to mistake him for a bio terrorist. He had come here in an attempt to escape being a prisoner, so it was no surprise that he wasn’t keen to risk his newfound freedom over a simple misunderstanding. He was no longer Desmond Miles, the Assassin. That man had died alone, in a cave that was better left forgotten and unfound. Now, he was Ennio, the bartender who lived in the rougher part of Seattle and continued a quiet life under the radar. 

It had been days since he’d last gone to work: the club had closed due to the DUP threat, and restlessness started to crawl through him. Every shadow made him jump, every creak made him flinch; he had spent too much of his life running to feel safe staying in one place, and he’d been here too long. He needed to get out, if only for a few moments. Such an idea was dangerous right now, though, when he could be stopped without reason and searched just because some agent decided they didn’t like him. Was he really willing to risk getting captured simply because he couldn’t stand to be stationary anymore? Was he really willing to risk getting captured because his paranoia was starting to get the best of him, when he was better off continuing to lay low and avoid drawing attention himself?

Logically, he understood that he needed to lay low; paranoia wasn’t something that could be reasoned with, though. That was why, despite his better judgment, he found himself slipping on his jacket and walking out the door. That was why he found himself walking down the treacherous steps of his apartments rather than turning around and locking himself back inside—he didn’t have a choice. He had been still for too long, and if he waited any longer, he feared he might truly lose his mind in the literal sense; after his time in the Animus, he wasn’t the most stable of individuals. 

His fingers tapped out a nervous rhythm against the loose banister as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, fighting the urge to pull up the hood on his jacket. This was just going to be a simple trip to the grocery store, as he’d been living off of snack food for the past couple of days, yet there was something peculiar in the way the air settled around him, weighing against his shoulders like a sack of wet sand. With a deep breath, Desmond stepped off the last step, listening as his shoes gently scuffed against the cracked and weathered cement. On a normal day, he would have taken his motorcycle and gone to the “better” grocery store a couple of blocks over; today, instinct was telling him to leave the bike here and go on foot, since it would draw less attention to him than the bike. Tension crackled in the air around him, a near-constant hum that mingled with the cry of sirens echoing in the city, the usual hustle and bustle of Seattle having slammed to a sudden halt. The city was wrong, roads both in and out of the city had been closed (or in the case of a bridge, blown up) and he was starting to feel incredibly claustrophobic—perhaps it wasn’t being in his apartment that was making uneasy.

With a quick shake of his head and a hunch of his shoulders (an attempt to make himself seem a touch smaller, unthreatening) Desmond forced one foot after another, making his way carefully down the pavement, amber hues bright despite the storm of emotions that thundered inside of him. With a flinch, he focused, and allowed the familiar colors of Eagle Vision to wash over the city, previous amber turning into gold, bright against his otherwise dark outline. Prolonged use always had negative effects, and it was difficult to ignore the pain radiating through his arm, but this was the only way he could confidently walk down the street, the only way he could know what was coming for him; he had needed to get out of his apartment, yes, but that didn’t mean he wanted to die for some cheap groceries. His last sacrifice had been noble, and he would hate to make his next one something lame. 

He had gotten halfway to the grocery store before he noticed the hint of red. It moved rapidly, from rooftop to rooftop, blurred against the neon of the city lights; had he been studying the sky (he wasn’t used to his enemies coming from above, and had forgotten about the ability of the bioterrorists) he would have seen the agent earlier. If he had been paying attention, maybe he would have been more prepared for this—then again, if he hadn’t left his home, he wouldn’t have had to deal with this at all. But no, instead, he had just had to go out to try and get groceries, all because he couldn’t handle sitting around inside for much longer. Once again, he had made an absolutely brilliant choice, and as typical of all of his brilliant choices, it’d backfired on him. 

There was no time to attempt to avoid the confrontation; he’d been spotted, and he’d unintentionally drawn attention to himself simply by being out tonight. With a sharp inhale, Desmond dropped his eyes and dismissed Eagle Vision, his stomach twisting as he desperately willed away the bright gold that had morphed previous amber eyes, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket in an attempt to make himself seem small and unthreatening. Even as he did so, though, his mind was racing, instinct tensing his muscles as he prepared to fight or flee; he had never encountered a bioterrorist before, and he had no idea what they were capable of, but he wasn’t about to simply give up. Voices of ancestors long-dead whispered in his ear, warning him to be cautious, and despite the pain that still clawed at his arm, he could feel the hum of power singing deep within him, begging to be used. He wasn’t certain what he was up against, should this confrontation go sour, but he was not powerless. The only question was how much he was willing to pay to access that power. 

A thud, and then the agent was before him, a gross sneer twisting his lips as he took a moment to look Desmond up and down, fingers firmly wrapped around the gun pressed against his chest. Despite the weapon, though, there wasn’t anything impressive about this man; he was on the smaller side, and while the concrete had split below him when he had jumped from the building, he didn’t seem to be all that threatening. It was likely little more than a ruse, but he had been around loose cannons before, and although his sneer hinted at potential needless hostility, there wasn’t much to this fellow. Briefly, Desmond allowed his shoulders to relax, a morbid amusement replacing previous fear. He’d gotten pretty good at perfecting his innocent civilian act these last couple of months, and with any luck, he’d be able to play this guy right into it. 

“What brings you out this time of night, sir?” the DUP agent barked, fingers hovering against the trigger to his rifle, “and don’t tell me you’re out for a night stroll. This part of town isn’t exactly your scenic park.”

“Just need to get some groceries,” Desmond said, swallowing the sarcasm that desperately pounded against his lips, “the buses aren’t running right now, so I figured walking was my only option. Did I do something wrong?” In the pockets of his jacket, his hands clenched, nails biting into his palms as he desperately attempted to keep his calm, to act as though he was little more than a wide-eyed innocent who fed into every bit of news the media had been trying to shove down his throat. Sometimes it was better to play the part of the sheep than take the role as the wolf; fangs were a lot harder to hide after they’d been bared. 

“Groceries, huh? Kinda odd you’re getting groceries at this time of night, considering the whole city has been on lockdown. Did you just end up sleeping through the day?” Judgment rang in the agent’s words and twisted his face into a bigger sneer, a wicked sort of delight blatant in the sick expression, “I don’t buy it. I think you’re trying to hide something. There’s something about you that I just don’t like. You’d better come with me; the less trouble you make, the easier this is gonna be.” As if to prove a point, the agent cocked the rifle perched in his hands, the definite click of a round sliding into the chambers echoing in the eerily silent street.

It was undoubtedly a scare tactic, and a poorly executed one at that. And while Desmond didn’t doubt that this fellow would shoot him if he didn’t obey, he found himself entirely uncompelled to listen to him. He had tried to do this the nice way, he had tried to simply go on without a fight, but it seemed that the universe wasn’t keen on the idea of giving him a break. With a heavy sigh—he had tried so hard to avoid a fight—Desmond raised his eyes so he could properly study his opponent, hues narrowing in a curious mix of amusement and exhaustion. At least, that’s what it was before the breath was suddenly knocked out of him, before panic suddenly dug its dirty fingernails into his throat.

Somehow, he had missed it earlier. Maybe it had been because he’d been more interested in sizing this guy up to really pay attention to the small details, or maybe it had been because he had been distracted by the soft whisper of deceased voices in his mind; whatever the reason, it didn’t change the fact he had missed the patch subtly sewn below the bold DUP lettering on the agent’s jacket. It was a patch of a logo that he had seen far too many times, the patch of something he had thought he’d left behind when he had died all that time ago: Abstergo. There was no denying that it was their logo; he still saw it in his sleep, when the nightmares were bad enough for him to wake up with his throat raw from screaming. 

Suddenly, he was afraid. 

Head jerking, Desmond found himself immediately setting his jaw and squaring his shoulders, previous amusement disappearing under the sudden thunder of his heartbeat. Inside the pockets of his jacket, he could feel his hands shaking, the idea of being captured (again) taking the breath from his lungs and squeezing his chest until he feared he would snap in half. No longer could he pretend to be a naïve civilian, for if he continued to play that game, he would be captured again. If he were captured, Abstergo would find out that he was still alive, and if Abstergo found out he was still alive—no, he couldn’t go down that road. Not when he was already struggling to breathe, the fingernails in his neck only tightening with each frantic thud of his heart. Now was not the time to break down; he had to fight. 

“Yeah, I’ve been told that I have a face that’s hard to forget,” Desmond retorted, a scoff falling from his lips despite the terror raging within him, “generally people mean that as a good thing, but I guess I’ll let that one slide. Look, bud. All I want to do is go get some groceries so I can eat something other than dried cereal for the first time since your boss started martial law. Can we drop this, now? I can’t imagine you’re that bored.” As his innocent act fell away, previous quiet words were replaced with something with a bit more bite; it was something he’d probably come to regret, but he hadn’t come this far to go belly up at the first sign of trouble. 

“You’re going to regret that, asswipe,” the agent snarled, jolly sneer falling from his face at the realization that he simply wouldn’t be able to bully his way into getting what he wanted, “resisting arrest, generally uncooperative—you’re likely dangerous, meaning I’m authorized to take the action I deem necessary. Dry cereal is going to be the last of your worries after I’m done with you.” There was no further warning; with a sharp laugh, the agent raised the gun he had previously been threatening Desmond with and let loose, the sound of gunfire echoing loudly between the rundown buildings, mingling into a morbid melody with the persistent wail of emergency response vehicles in the distance. 

There was no hesitation in Desmond’s movements; the second the agent moved his gun, he flung himself into an adjacent alley, the soft tinkle of broken glass mixing in with the deafening sound of gunfire, coating his back as ancient windows shattered thanks to ricocheting bullets and a less than careful aim. Had he lingered for even a second longer in his previous position, he would have been riddled with bullets. As it was, his jacket had received more than a fair share of grazes, tattered shreds of material hanging down like flags. Adrenaline raced through his veins, and the world slowed before him; it was almost as though he could predict each movement before it actually happened. Dimly, he was aware of his own, aware of the fact that he was reaching along his forearm and pulling out one of the hidden blades carefully concealed there, dimly aware of aiming it and throwing it with an accuracy not entirely his own. Everything was dim, because the movements weren’t his own; he was not defending himself consciously, but rather automatically, the skills of his ancestors mingling with the adrenaline thundering in his heart. He would die before he went back into the bloodied jaws of Abstergo.

The knife sunk cleanly into the agent’s arm, rendering his dominant hand unusable. It meant that, for a few moments, he wouldn’t have to worry about dodging machine fire. That wasn’t saying much, though; this agent was hardly human, and had long-since been “blessed” with an array of pseudo powers, and Desmond wasn’t about to believe that this fellow wouldn’t use them in a heartbeat. The only problem was the fact that he had no idea how to fight whatever it was this guy could do. Chest heaving, blood trickled down Desmond’s face, dripping onto the tattered jacket with a soft plop, the results of the windows having shattered around him in his desperate attempt to avoid being blown to tatters. 

“I knew you were dangerous,” the DUP agent spat, laughter rich in his words as the wound inflicted from the throwing knife slowly healed, “but you’re not a bioterrorist. No way you would use such a weak attack if you were one. Kind of a shame, I was looking for a good fight. Guess this is going to be over faster than I thought.” Disappointment briefly tinged the man’s voice, before he gave a shrug. All around him, concrete suddenly swirled, ripping up from the ground with a horrible crack of a noise.  
For a moment, Desmond could only stare—he had never seen abilities like this, and he’d seen a lot of peculiar things—before he gave a sigh and slowly shook his head. It seemed he’d landed himself in a bit of a situation; everything he had on him was essentially useless against the other, unless he somehow managed to get close enough to slice his throat. Judging by the concrete surrounding the mercenary, that wasn’t a very likely possibility. However, the fact that this guy was still willing to kill him told him something important: he didn’t know who he was. If Vidic had people looking for him, the soldier wouldn’t be so eager to destroy him. If he were to die here tonight, he would die nameless, another unknown victim in yet another war. It was an absolutely liberating realization, and it was because of that, that Desmond found himself grinning. It was absolutely absurd to be grinning in this situation, considering he could still feel the warm trickle of blood dripping down his body and along his back, but he couldn’t help himself. 

He didn’t know what he was going to do. He didn’t know how he was going to escape this situation, but the funny thing was that he just didn’t care. Grin still stretched across his expression, Desmond threw his arm forward again and again to no avail; every blade was blocked by a wall of concrete, his every attack utterly unsuccessful in the face of power he simply didn’t possess. He couldn’t fight (and even if he could, he was out of weapons) so he did the only thing left that he could do: he fled. As he listened to the clash of steel against cement, as he realized that he didn’t have any other blades on him, Desmond turned on his heel and ran; just because he was not scared to die did not mean that he was willing to. His feet pounded against the pavement as he darted through the alley, effortlessly throwing himself across the simple fence meant to act as some sort of barricade. Behind him, he could hear the booming laughter the DUP agent; undoubtedly, this was nothing more than a fun game to him, an exercise in cat and mouse. 

The feeling of concrete slamming against him was a sharp one, nearly enough to drive him to his knees. That would have ruined the game, though, and as long as he kept the game going, he would live. Rather than fall, Desmond continued on, breath loud and ragged against the looming alleys, trying to find a hideout even though he knew there was no place he could escape to. Not when his enemy was so much faster than he was, when his enemy was so much more powerful than he was; this was not something he had trained for. Blood trickled down his back, and each impact of the concrete further ripped his jacket and tore open his skin. He wasn’t entirely out of options—the power humming in his veins reminded him of this—but to use the Apple’s powers in this sort of situation would likely result in severe consequences, if not death. The greater the use, the greater the probability his body wouldn’t be able to withstand the shock. The marks had already climbed from his forearm and embedded themselves into his shoulder, black tendrils steadily creeping towards his collarbone and reaching for his throat.

“You’re a stubborn one, huh?” the DUP agent snapped, “Dangerous people usually are. You’re a threat, which leaves me free to exterminate you. Should have just stayed home after all, huh?” Laughter ripped from the agent—a sound that reminded him of grating gravel—before he threw his arm forward, sending a wall of concrete. Had Desmond not been wounded from their previous encounter, had his legs not been burning from the accumulation of wounds on them, perhaps he would have had a chance to dodge the wall. As he moved to throw himself to the side, though, Desmond felt his legs finally give out under him, sending him slamming into the pavement with a sharp gasp as the air was forcibly removed from his lungs.

Then, the wall exploded. Having rolled to his back—he refused to die a coward’s death, he would face his end with squared shoulders and a tight jaw—Desmond barely had a moment to comprehend what had happened before as sudden thud announced the presence of what could only be another bioterrorist; regular people didn’t explode concrete walls, or crack the pavement after they landed on it. It was just his luck, wasn’t it? As if one bioterrorist wasn’t enough of a challenge. Lips curled into a bitter sort of grin, Desmond twisted, pulling his back up against the wall in an attempt to get a look at his sudden company. Blood clotted his vision, dripping from a particularly nasty gash on his forehead, and he could feel himself reaching for the power that lingered deep with him. He was out of options; he had to fight.

It was the sound of chain against flesh that stopped him, his eyes wide as his head snapped up to take in the sudden change in scene. One, two, three—three hits of the chain were all it took to take down the DUP agent. Granted, it was no ordinary chain; even with his vision dulled, he could catch the wisps of smoke curling from it, the flare of white sparks jumping from each impact. The surprise of his sudden company was nothing when compared to his surprise as to who his company was. 

It seemed Delsin Rowe hadn’t been kidding when he said he was going to be the most interesting fellow he’d ever met. Though he had only seen the other a few times, he had always been good with remembering people, and there was no mistaking that familiar fashion disaster of an outfit, that familiar way of movement. Before Delsin had even turned around, Desmond had recognized him, even with the smoke curling from his hands and the sparks dancing from his fingers. The power which had previously been singing in his veins abruptly quieted to a low hum as disbelief replaced previous adrenaline, a dark brow arching as he took a moment to simply study the individual before him. 

It seemed they were both full of surprises, weren’t they?

“You either have some of the worst luck I’ve ever seen, or you have some of the best luck I’ve ever seen,” Delsin scoffed, taking a moment to take in Ennio’s tattered and bloodied form, attempting to ignore the sudden surge of panic that twisted at his gut. It had been pure coincidence that he had been in this part of Seattle, pure coincidence that he had just happened to see Ennio getting his ass kicked by one of Augustine’s mad guard dogs—and that scared him. The fact that Ennio had almost died scared him, and he wasn’t about to try and figure out why. That was a can of worms he just didn’t want to open, especially when the dude looked like he’d been hit by some sort of runaway bus. “I’m going to go with extremely lucky, seeing as you somehow didn’t die, and that I was here to save the day.”

Turning his head to the side, Desmond spat some blood onto the cement, a hand gingerly coming up to press against his split lip; now that the fight was over, his body was starting to complain about the abuse it had gone through, every injury and scrape screaming for his attention. “That’s usually how my life goes,” Desmond rasped, “figured I was either going to die, or something was going to happen that I couldn’t even be able to predict. Lo and behold, here you are. The same guy who sat me down and forced me to watch Disney movies, one of those feared bioterrorists.” Maybe he should have been at least the smallest bit afraid of Delsin, maybe he should have been prepared for another fight, but it was hard to be afraid of someone who had never given you a reason to fear them. If Delsin had planned on killing him, he doubted he would have bothered to stand there and make conversation with him. It just didn’t fit the profile he had for Delsin. 

“Conduit.” Delsin’s words were suddenly sharp, previous amusement in his expression hardening into something a touch more hostile, “Not bioterrorist, but conduit. Bioterrorist is a word the DUP uses to try and turn the people against us, to try and justify their reasons for locking us up and torturing us.” 

Startled by the sudden change in Delsin’s tone, Desmond found himself slowly nodding in agreement with what Delsin was saying; if he had been able to, he would have raised his hands up in a gesture of peace. Such an action was currently beyond him, though, so he could only hope that the slow nod would convey the same message. Truth be told, he wasn’t surprised that the DUP would sink to such levels—if they kept the public afraid, they didn’t have to work as hard to justify their actions—as Abstergo had once employed the same tactics against him. It wasn’t like he could voice that right now, though. Not when the shock of what he had seen (the logo, not the crazy fellow trying to kill him) still reverberated through his bones.

“Sorry,” Desmond muttered, entirely genuine in his apology, “didn’t know what else to call you. It’s the first time a guy has tried to kill me with concrete, and the first time I’ve been saved by someone using sparks and smoke. For some reason, I was expecting something a bit flashier from you.” 

Whatever tension Delsin had previously been carrying eased at both the apology and the joke; despite having just had his ass beaten, despite having nearly died, Desmond wasn’t afraid of him. Or if he was, he was doing a hell of a job hiding it. Even with the worry pressing against his skin, Delsin found he couldn’t help but scoff at Ennio’s remark, a smirk stretching across his face as he nonchalantly rocked back on his heels. “I’ve got plenty of flash, but you wouldn’t be able to appreciate it right now. Maybe I’ll show you after you look a little less like you just got hit by a bus. How the hell did you manage to survive that, by the way? I figured anyone who went against one of those assholes would be done for.” Genuine curiosity threaded itself into Delsin’s words, and before he could help himself, he took a step forward, aching to aid some of the wounds that marred Ennio’s tanned skin. 

“He had a sense of humor. A really shitty one, yeah, but after I refused to just give up and die, he seemed to make a game out of the whole thing,” Desmond muttered, unwilling to explain the real reason behind his seemingly miraculous survival. When Delsin suddenly stepped towards him, though, he stiffened, his shoulders squaring and gaze narrowing in response to the sudden movement. He was not reacting in fear due to the sudden reveal of the fact that Delsin was a conduit, but rather because he was still afraid of what would happen if Delsin touched him. Right now, it was easy enough to pretend that they were nothing more than an odd sort of friends; if Delsin touched him, and his world became alight with colors, he wouldn’t be able to pretend. 

Before he had a chance to explain this, though (as if he could explain this) Delsin stopped, shoulders tensing as he took in Desmond’s body language. It was easy to see what he was likely assuming, and for a moment, a strange ache slammed into Desmond’s chest, his mind desperately scrambling for a way to reassure a man he barely knew. He didn’t have the time to so much as open his mouth before Delsin spoke, though, effectively silencing whatever explanation he could have hoped to offer. 

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you look like you got hit by a bus. Honestly, you look like absolute shit. I—look, I can help you with it. It’s a long walk back to my apartment, and I don’t think you’ll make it back without a bit of my help. You don’t even have to thank me for it,” Delsin muttered, dark hues narrowing ever so slightly at Ennio. His fingers ached to touch the man before him, to close the wounds inflicted by Augustine (albeit indirectly) but he couldn’t necessarily blame Ennio for tensing; the guy had been tense before this incident, before he’d known he was a conduit, why would that have changed after recent events? Despite that logic, Delsin found he couldn’t help but feel frustrated by Ennio’s response; for the first time in his life, he had a chance to help, a chance to do something for someone he (weirdly) cared about, but he couldn’t. 

Had he not been terrified of what would happen after Delsin touched him, Desmond would have accepted the offer. Even with the fact that he had power in his veins—a power that was slowly closing the most superficial of wounds—it was hardly enough to repair all the damage he had taken today. He couldn’t accept, though, and even worse, he couldn’t explain why he couldn’t accept the offer. Stomach twisting, Desmond gave a slight shake of his head, and with an equally shaky hand, pushed himself up to his feet. There was no doubt in his mind that the rejection wouldn’t be taken well, but there was nothing he could do about it. As he moved, pain radiated through every inch of his body, nearly taking the breath from his lungs, black spots threatening to consume his vision. Not only did he (apparently) look like he’d been hit with a bus, but he also felt like he’d been hit by a bus; had the wall not been conveniently beside him, there was a good chance he would have actually fallen over. 

“I’ll walk,” Desmond said, his voice steadier than his hands, “trust me, it’s better if you don’t touch me. I—can’t explain it, but it’s the truth.” His words fell on deaf ears; even though he had only hung out with Delsin once or twice, he could see the conduit shut down, his eyes darkening and expression closing off as he forced a nonchalant shrug. 

“Your choice,” Delsin retorted, words short, “but don’t expect me to wait for you if you pass out.” Had he been a little less worried about Ennio, he would have considered just leaving. Right now, though, such a thought made his stomach twist in a peculiar way, so despite the hurt that lingered against him, he forced himself to stay, attention entirely fixed on the unusual fellow before him. He was still curious as to just how Ennio had managed to survive for as long as he had; it hadn’t been hard to follow the trail of blood to see where the fight had started, and if he were to make a bet, he was willing to bet that Ennio hadn’t been the only one who had bled during the fight. He had picked up those knives he had found at the scene, and while some of them had been shattered, one of them had been stained with blood. There was something different about Ennio, and maybe that was why he found himself drawn to him. Whatever the reason, he wasn’t about to let this guy out of his sight until he knew the wounds had been taken care of, and that he wasn’t getting in more trouble. 

“I’ll be fine,” Desmond scoffed, well aware of the fact that he was lying through his teeth, “you’re starting to sound like my dad.” His words were light, but the implication was far from that; his father had been nothing short of a cruel man, and his childhood had been filled with rigorous training regimens, where the weak were left behind or punished for failing. He’d gotten the scar on his face before he had ever left home, as both a branding (forever reminding him of the fact that he was an Assassin) and as a punishment—it had been shortly after that that he had ran away. That wasn’t exactly the best casual conversation though, was it? “You seem like the type to make dad jokes, actually, now that I’m thinking about.”

One agonizing step after another, and he had to fight to keep his knees from going out from under him. His words were a distraction, both for himself and for Delsin, an attempt to ease the near-palpable tension that had steadily built around them. Harm had been done, albeit unintentional, and that was something that sat in his stomach like a ball of lead. Had he not been so banged up, he would have tried to do something about it; he’d always been something of a people pleaser. His attempt at humor seemed to fall flat, though, as Delsin barely spared him a glance before going back to steadily striding down the sidewalk. He’d assumed a frontal position, his shoulders squared, as though he were attempting to act as some sort of shield. It was touching, in a weird way. He wasn’t used to the people he knew looking out for him, let alone someone who was closer to a stranger than a friend. 

Uncomfortable silence settled between them, leaving Desmond incredibly aware of each step he took, of the way his vision warped and swirled each time he took too deep of a breath. He did not complain, though; he had chosen this when he had denied Delsin’s offer to help, he had no room to complain. While he wasn’t about to complain, that wasn’t about to stop him from being curious. 

“The DUP agent who decided to fuck up my perfectly nice day—was he a conduit as well?” After a pause, Desmond gave a quick shake of his head, only just now hearing the words he had spoken. “I guess that was kind of a stupid question. Your average Joe doesn’t come around and start throwing concrete at the first person he decides must be guilty of something.” 

“They’re not actually conduits,” Delsin muttered with a shake of his head, finally breaking the silence that had stretched over them after Desmond had refused his help, “they’re fakes.”

“Fakes?” Desmond questioned, dark brows furrowing as he attempted to process what halting information he’d gotten out of Delsin, “You’re telling me there are “real” conduits and “fake” conduits?” He nearly tripped over the word conduit, tongue wanting to substitute in the familiar term of “bioterrorist,” but he caught himself before he could do any more damage. 

“Man, you’ve been living under that rock for a while, haven’t you?” Delsin snorted, glancing over his shoulder in an attempt to see if Ennio was actually serious; had he legitimately not heard the story about Cole? About all the shit that had gone down not too long ago? Yet, as he scanned Ennio’s face, he saw no trace of deceit; the guy honestly didn’t know anything about what had gone down for a few years, and for a moment, he couldn’t help but be miffed at how such a thing was possible. “Conduits are—they have a gene in them that activates. That’s what allows them their powers. It’s like a mutation. Those who have the mutation are “real” conduits. The prick you just met? You notice how all he could do was shit with concrete? He wasn’t a real conduit.” 

“You see, conduits have sort of no limitations when it comes to what ability they can acquire. Some people have neon, some people have video—point is, all of the DUP agents can only use concrete, because that’s Augustine’s ability. They’re fake conduits, because they all kinda reflect her.” The fact that Ennio hadn’t been exposed to conduits before was, perhaps, both a blessing and a curse. On one hand, it meant that the guy probably really had been living under a rock his whole life. On the other hand, though, it meant that he hadn’t been shaped by the media to believe that conduits were abominations, monsters that needed to be locked up and forgotten about. 

As he mulled over the information given to him, Desmond found he couldn’t help but be curious—unintentionally, he had stumbled across what seemed to be another war for freedom. It made sense that the Templars were partially behind this, seeing as they had always wanted to control the masses, but at the same time he couldn’t ignore the steadily growing feeling of dread climbing up and settling into his chest. He had come all this way to try and escape a battle, having believed he’d already served his time, only to find himself smack dab in the middle of exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. There were only two options: he could run again, or he could fight again. 

He had just gotten another chance at life. Was he really willing to risk it for a war that he didn’t need to be part of?

“Augustine?” Desmond questioned after a moment, the name unfamiliar to him.

“Yeah. Head of the DUP, a real bitch. Probably the reason people think red heads don’t have souls,” Delsin muttered, a sudden hesitation starting to filter into his voice. He didn’t want to talk about why he was fighting this battle; he didn’t want to talk about what Augustine had done to his people because of him. The conversation was starting to get a little too personal for him, and old walls were starting to be thrown up; the less Ennio knew about him, the safer he was likely to be. At least, that’s what he assumed. He wasn’t sure how accurate it was, given how little he actually knew about the other.

“Gotta say, I’m kind of impressed you made it all the way here. I would have bet you’d fall over after a few steps,” Delsin quirked, suddenly wanting to change the subject, “why were you out, anyway? Whole city is on lockdown.”

“I got tired of eating dry cereal,” Desmond huffed, pain piercing through him as he carefully took each step, darkness once again threatening to overtake his vision as his knees screamed in protest, “figured that going to the grocery store wouldn’t be seen as a crime. I would have been fine if I’d been able to ignore him, but sometimes people set themselves up for a smart ass remark. Maybe I should have just dealt with my cereal issue.”

Startled, Delsin paused, eyes widening as he took a moment to stare at his unexpected companion. “You almost died because you didn’t want to eat dry cereal anymore?” he questioned, disbelief rich in his voice. Then, abruptly, a sharp laugh ripped through the conduit, a sound that was surprisingly genuine. “Oh my god, you literally almost died because you didn’t want to eat dry cereal anymore. Holy shit, imagine if you had actually died. That would be such a lame reason to go.” Laughter bubbled around Delsin’s words, and though the disbelief was still blatant in his expression, he couldn’t help but grin. This guy really was something else, wasn’t he?

“I make a lot of stupid choices,” Desmond explained with a huff of laughter, “I’m well aware of that. I don’t need you judging me for them. Besides, I didn’t die. My fridge is still bare at home, yeah, but I didn’t die, and I almost made a new friend. I would consider myself fairly lucky, at the end of the day.” Somehow, he’d reached the top of the stairs, and while he doubted he’d be able to get back down, he couldn’t help but feel a touch proud of himself. Yeah, his given reason for going out had been stupid (but he wasn’t about to try and explain the paranoia that had forced his hand) but some of the tension that had previously been surrounding them had lessened, and that was all he really cared about. 

“You know, my heart goes out to you. As an act of kindness, I think I’ve got a few microwave meals or something you can have. A great meal for surviving your…friendship, I guess. Way to go,” Delsin chuckled, lazily letting the both of them into the apartment and making a beeline for the bathroom. As much as he hated having to use the first aid kit, he was suddenly glad that he owned one. It saved the trouble of going out and buying one when this guy was a potential flight risk.

Although it hurt, Desmond couldn’t help but snort at those words, amusement faint in the quiet sound. He didn’t have the heart to tell Delsin that a microwave meal sounded about as appealing as plain rice. It wasn’t as if he could truly whine, anyway—it it was a step up from what he'd been eating for the past few days, and it wasn’t like anyone was willing to deliver with the city currently a warzone. Breath catching as pain radiated across his ribs, Desmond gave a slight shake of his head, and his response to Delsin’s words was slower than he’d liked. The gravity of what had happened was starting to settle into his already weary bones, and it felt as though he had been thrown into a pool tied to a brick of concrete; he was sinking, and the way out was nothing more than a distant light he could only reach for.

“Generous,” Desmond muttered as he watched Delsin’s retreating form, “you sure know how to make a guy feel welcome.” It was only when Delsin disappeared entirely into the bathroom that Desmond allowed his attention to wander, his gaze traveling to what had once been his favorite jacket. 

What was left of the jacket (which wasn’t much) seemed to be held together not by fabric and delicate stitching, but rather by the dried blood that bloomed across the previously white surface, staining it in a way that not even bleach could cure. There wasn’t even enough fabric to use for rags, if he had had a use for such things, and he was honestly surprised it had stayed together as long as it had. Regardless, there was no hope for it anymore: it had protected him from taking an even worse beating, but he wouldn’t be able to recover it. 

Brief regret settled in Desmond’s stomach at the realization; the jacket had been from his time with the Assassins, and while it was perhaps foolish to keep it after his so-called death, it had been one of the few positive links he had had to that part of his past, and more importantly, to the people he’d befriended before his demise. Perhaps it was time to let go, though; after all, hadn’t he already said goodbye to that life when he’d killed Desmond Miles? With a frown creasing his expression, Desmond carefully shrugged the ragged remains of his jacket off—wincing the entire time as his body screamed in protest—and tentatively set it on the back of the armchair. Which was a new addition to the living room, he suddenly realized. Last time he’d been here, there’d just been a couch and sad TV. The upgrade was kind of nice.

Where his jacket had been completely destroyed, his t-shirt could still be used for rags. It was torn, and blood stuck the fibers to his skin, but it wasn’t completely without hope. His relief about this was brief, though, for as soon as he realized that he needed to take the shirt off, he couldn’t help but feel a faint feeling of dread. The wounds that had already scabbed had scabbed over with the still-connected bits of t-shirt; if he were to just slide his shirt off, he would have to rip through wounds already closed, and risk bleeding all over the place again. He was already weak from blood loss, and he wasn’t particularly fond of the idea of losing more blood. Nor was he fond of the idea of bloodying up a washcloth that wasn’t his, though; he didn’t want to destroy what limited things Delsin might have. 

It was a low whistle of surprise that caught his attention. Engulfed in his predicament about the next step to take, he had failed to notice that Delsin had returned, a shiny white first aid kit resting in his hands. Though he couldn’t fathom a guess as to why Delsin had a first aid kit, especially if he supposedly possessed some sort of healing ability, Desmond was grateful he had one. 

“I don’t know how you managed to survive that beating, but I’m impressed. You’re an idiot, but I’m impressed,” Delsin muttered, setting down the first aid kit on the armrest of the armchair—he’d learned his lesson about trying to get close to the other—before looking Ennio up and down critically. Experience told him that shirt wasn’t going to come off easily, and that if Ennio tried to just take it off, he was going to subject himself to a world of unnecessary pain. “Hold on, I’ve got a clean rag somewhere around here. Blood is a bitch to get out of the carpet, and I’d like to get my security deposit back.” A security deposit that didn’t exist, true, but what was he supposed to say? It wasn’t like he could sit there and mother the guy. He didn’t know him well enough, and even if he had, that had never really been his style.

Without missing a beat, Delsin strolled into the kitchen and picked up one of the few bowls he had. It was the last clean one he had, and he wasn’t entirely certain where the others had gone, but it would work. The second step, finding the clean wash rag, was a little bit more difficult but not entirely unmanageable; one warm, soapy bowl of water and warm rag later, and he was feeling at least a little bit better than earlier. Yeah, Ennio wouldn’t let him heal him, but he wasn’t objecting to the first aid, and that was enough to briefly soothe the part of him that had been panicking when he’d first come across the chilling scene. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if he hadn’t shown up. 

“DUPs don’t usually actively target citizens,” Delsin mused as he threw himself down on the couch, unwilling to leave Ennio alone, “most of the time it’s just kind of an accidental thing. What makes you so special? They’re assholes, but they have their orders.” 

Desmond accepted the bowl without a word of complaint, and quickly pressed the rag against some of the more formidable wounds, jaw tightening as pain seared across his body. Bit by bit, he worked the fibers of his t-shirt out of the wounds, a process that was both slow and incredibly painful. It offered him a distraction, though, a chance to desperately come up with a suitable answer for Delsin’s question. He couldn’t just say that he’d pissed off the wrong guy; even in his mind, the excuse fell flat, an obvious cover up for something deeper. And the fact that Delsin was—once again—bringing this up told him that he wasn’t about to just let the matter go. If he was going to lie, he was going to have to do it well; good thing he’d gotten fairly skilled in speaking in half-truths.

“They’re affiliated with Abstergo,” Desmond spoke slowly as he gingerly slid the shirt off, wincing as the wounds on his back protested to the movements, “and I used to work for Abstergo, at least, until I pissed off the boss, and got myself fired. So I guess there’s some sort of grudge there still, the DUP agent must have recognized my face or something like that. It’s a hazard that comes with pissing off a multi-million dollar company.” 

Surprise caught in Delsin’s throat as Ennio took off his shirt. While there was no denying that the other was impressive to look at—as it seemed that he was fairly well built under those clothes—that was not what so vividly caught his attention. Ennio’s skin was mottled black and blue from his fight with the DUP agent, vibrant colors stretching across his skin and blossoming into something almost sinister, but as unsettling as the bruises and wounds were, they were nothing compared to the scars running all along Ennio’s torso. They were not recent, and some seemed to be rather faded, but the fact they existed at all was enough to make Delsin’s gut clench and his mind twist with curiosity: what was this guy hiding? Just from the looks of it, he had a story worth telling. Whether or not he would get to hear it was an entirely different matter, though.

There was something curious on Ennio’s shoulder, too. He had missed it at first, as it was as dark as the bruises coloring Ennio’s body, but there was no denying the fact that Ennio’s shoulder was unnaturally black. The marks seemed to stretch across his collarbone, and if he had to guess, he was willing to guess they stretched down his shoulder blades as well. He had wondered what the bandages on Ennio’s forearm and biceps had been for; perhaps the tattoo was fresh? Yet, he’d gotten several tattoos; whatever that was, it didn’t feel like a tattoo. There was something off-putting about it, he just couldn’t figure out why. 

Though he knew it likely wasn’t hostile, Desmond couldn’t help but feel uneasy as he felt Delsin’s eyes on him, anxiety brushing its cool fingers against the back of his neck as he attempted to focus on patching up the deeper of his wounds. It was easy to hide details about himself with words. Half-truths, when spoken confidently, sounded exactly like genuine truths. It was much harder to hide physical evidence though, and both the scars and corruption on his body screamed about things he’d prefer to leave alone.  
“Do you have anything I could borrow?” Desmond asked suddenly, desperate to get Delsin’s attention off of him, “My stuff got destroyed in the fight, and I don’t really feel like attracting more attention by walking down the street without a shirt on.” He would tend to the wounds on his legs later; as it was, he could feel the power humming through him, slowly closing the wounds he couldn’t reach now that the deeper ones had been tended to. The Apple had never displayed the ability to heal, and he could only assume that this ability came from when he had touched the Orb. Wherever it had come from, he was grateful for it. Already he was feeling stronger, his head a bit clearer and heartbeat stronger than it had been an hour ago. After he ate, he’d be able to get out of here, he’d be able to go home and reflect on both what had happened and what he’d learned today.

“First you take my food, and then you take my clothes. I’m starting to wonder about the equality behind this friendship,” Delsin scoffed, a touch embarrassed. Caught in his thoughts, he hadn’t realized his gaze had lingered on Ennio; now that his attention had been noticed, he could read the other’s blatant discomfort and he couldn’t help but feel a touch guilty because of it. Oops.

“What did you do to piss off Abstergo?” Delsin questioned as he quickly got to his feet, pointedly turning his attention down the hall as he wandered off in search of some extra clothes, “This sort of reaction seems kind of extreme.”

“I disagreed with their policies. You know how dictators hate being challenged? It’s something like that. I fought the policies, and they fought back,” Desmond said, relieved as he felt Delsin’s gaze leave him. His relief didn’t last long, though; he needed to change the subject before Delsin got any closer to the real reason behind his feud with Abstergo. 

“You’re at war with the DUP, right? What’s that all about? I know how the news paints it, but the media isn’t exactly a reliable source of information,” Desmond questioned. If there was one thing he understood, it was how easily the media could twist things to fit their own needs; where it had painted all conduits as “a danger to society,” the truth seemed to be far from it. This situation was proof enough of that: had Delsin been truly dangerous, he doubted he’d take the time to patch him up. 

“What they’re doing—it isn’t right. They’re barricading districts, torturing innocent people, and fear-mongering the town simply to flex their own authority around here. Nobody’s stood up to them because they’re all scared of the "public enemy number one" that they've created so everyone will comply . Look at what they've done to this city, and look at what they've done to the people in it. It’s not right.” Passion colored Delsin’s voice, twisting his words into something vibrant and alive; while he was not willing to admit exactly why he was so determined to take on the DUP—that was just too personal—he was not afraid to speak of every other wrong committed by the DUP. The fact that this guy didn’t immediately believe everything he’d heard through the media was something of a relief, as was the fact that he wasn’t treating him any differently than he had during their prior interactions. Was it a little weird? Yeah, most people had at least a little apprehension, but he wasn’t going to question it yet. Instead, Delsin strolled out of the bedroom and tossed an old t-shirt and hoodie at Ennio, having noted how uneasy he was being exposed earlier, before throwing himself onto the couch once again. 

“Abstergo, huh? That entertainment company? Don’t know what they’d want to do working with Augustine, but I’ll take your word for it. Next time you go out to get some groceries, you should try doing it at a decent time of day. I might not be around to play hero next time, you know, and I still haven’t heard a thank you for saving your ass,” Delsin mused, a slight smile crooking his expression as he took a moment to study the other, ignoring the feelings trying to spring up at the sight of Ennio in his clothes. 

Shrugging on both the shirt and sweatshirt, Desmond shot Delsin a look of surprise, eyes widening as he took a moment to review the conversation they’d had ever since Delsin had shown up to save the day. He wasn’t used to being saved, and as a result, he’d forgotten that the typical response was to thank someone when they saved you. A touch embarrassed by this revelation, a sort of sheepish look crossed Desmond’s expression; he hadn’t meant to be rude, especially after everything Delsin had just done for him. He really needed to step up his game, this was just shameful.

“Thank you, Delsin,” Desmond spoke, sincerity ringing in his every word, “for saving my ass back there, and for all your help continuing to save my ass. I appreciate it—life is a bit better when you’re not a stain on the concrete.” 

“Don’t worry about it, Ennio. Just don't forget that you're still in debt and owe a dinner and a movie from last time; just add a second one to that bill.” Play laced Delsin’s words, and a grin was quick to cross his expression as he further splayed out on the couch. Somehow, Ennio was already looking better; though he knew it was impossible (right?) it seemed as though the wounds on his face had mostly healed, and color had once again returned to his face. The guy had taken a beating, but it hadn’t killed him, and he couldn’t help but quietly continue to admire his perseverance

For a long moment, Desmond was quiet, before he sighed and slowly sank down into the armchair, a hand gingerly coming up to run through his hair. He had asked himself earlier what he planned on doing about this DUP Abstergo partnership, and even though he had known the answer from the beginning, he had had to at least pretend there was more than one option to this. There had never been more than one option, though; he wasn’t a kid anymore, and he couldn’t run from his problems like he had when he was young. After a few heartbeats, Desmond raised his head, resolution in his gaze, and fixed Delsin with a weary sort of look. The small smile that had previously been hovering on his expression was gone, replaced by quiet tension as old tension settled around his shoulders. In a way, he embraced the familiarity of said tension, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but feel a little sick at the fact he was back at this.

“I have to tell you something,” Desmond said slowly, scarred fingers tangling together in his lap, “My name isn’t Ennio. My real name is Desmond, and I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve lived an interesting life. Saying I’ve pissed off Abstergo is putting it incredibly mildly, and now that they’re involved with the DUP, I can’t pretend anymore." A pause. "You know how Augustine is capturing and tormenting innocent people, using the fear to control the masses? Abstergo has done the same thing. The fact they’ve teamed up is absolutely terrifying, considering Abstergo’s wealth and influence, and I’m not going to sit here and do nothing about it.”

Owlishly, Delsin stared at Ennio—no, Desmond—mind desperately trying to process everything he was just told. For whatever reason, he wasn’t surprised this guy was running under a fake name. What surprised him was the fact that Desmond had told him his actual name, and that despite what had happened today, he still wanted to try and fight against the DUP. He had no idea what beef Desmond had with Abstergo, but if he was willing to join the fight even after nearly dying, then he couldn’t bring himself to doubt the authenticity of Desmond’s words.

“Wait, so you’re telling me that between the two of us, you’re the one with the fake ID?” Delsin questioned; disbelief in his voice, “After all the shit you gave me, you have the fake ID? And you still won’t make a drink?” 

Startled by the questions, a sharp laugh escaped Desmond, and though it furthered the ache in his ribs, he found he couldn’t help but be relieved by the response. He had expected something worse, considering he’d been lying about who he was for a while now, and it was something of a comfort to be greeted with what he assumed was a joke.

“Yeah, I’m the one with the fake ID. That’s why I knew yours wasn’t real. I’ve been told I have a great eye for spotting fakes and yours wasn’t even that hard to tell,” Desmond joked, shoulders losing some of their previous tension.

“Give it a rest already, would you?” Delsin snorted, amusement in the simple sound, “Look, Desmond. I appreciate you wanting to help, but this is—this isn’t something you should get involved in. You already almost died walking down the street. You’re a little too fragile to go out there and fight the DUP. Not to mention the fact you’re a little too normal to fight the DUP.”

“If they’re looking for freaks, I’m not that far off the mark,” Desmond protested, humor falling from his expression, “I’m not going to fight the DUP. I’m fighting Abstergo. The fact they’re working together is just something of a coincidence.”

“I don’t care who you’re fighting, if they’re working together, you’re still going to get your ass kicked,” the conduit objected, brows furrowing as he shook his head at Desmond. 

“I know Abstergo,” Desmond objected before Delsin could continue with his train of thought, “you’re going to need me if you want to take down the DUP. I’m doing this, with or without your alliance, so make up your mind. Are you going to work with me, or are you going to keep trying to do this on your own?” Echoes of his father were present in those words, and for a moment Desmond found himself wanting to shudder; he had always fought so hard to avoid becoming his father, so hearing those echoes in his words was enough to make his hear t drop and stomach clench. If Delsin noticed the slight change in his demeanor, he thankfully didn’t comment—something Desmond couldn’t help but be grateful for. 

Staring at Desmond, Delsin took a moment to listen to the absolution in the other’s words, shoulders slumping as he found himself unwilling giving in. Sure, he could continue to argue with the other, but he could see from the set of Desmond’s jaw and the tightness of his shoulders that no amount of arguing was about to change his mind. Besides, there was truth in the fact that he knew absolutely nothing about Abstergo; having Desmond around as an ally would be more helpful than not, even if it meant he’d constantly be worried about the guy being splattered across the pavement somewhere. 

“Don’t die,” Delsin said finally, grumpily crossing his arms against his chest, “it won’t help anyone if you end up as splatter on the cement.”

It wasn’t a promise he could make. Regardless, Desmond was amused by Delsin’s words. Giving a noncommittal sort of gesture, he turned his attention to the weathered TV, a brow arching as he studied the impressive stack of movies beside it. “You wanna watch something?” he questioned, unwilling to leave quite yet. While Disney movies weren’t his favorite thing, he wanted to take advantage of the brief calm, fully aware of the fact that it may never happen again. War was funny that way, and you had to take each peaceful moment and enjoy it to the fullest. He would know. Whatever they were going to watch tonight, he didn’t know, but—maybe he’d be able to enjoy it.

There was no way he could back out of this now. By telling Delsin his real name, he had committed to another cause, and there was no going back. Maybe he should have felt more strongly opposed to throwing himself back into a life he’d fought so hard to escape, a life he’d nearly died to escape, but instead of fear, a sense of peace had filled him; he had a purpose again. Previously, he had been restless, antsy and always looking for something to do. He had assumed it was because he’d been able to relax for once in his life, but that had been incorrect. He had been antsy because he’d been without a purpose, without a reason for existing; and while it was foolish to throw his entire self into a war that he had no hopes of winning, he did so without hesitation. 

Ennio was dead. 

Desmond Miles had returned.


	4. # 6B6B6B

Not too long ago, he had compared the current state of Seattle to hell. At the time, he had assumed it to be an accurate description: DUP agents had been terrorizing innocent people the minute they so much as assumed they were conduits (though they preferred the term “bioterrorist”) and the entire city had been on lockdown, to the point where you couldn’t even get food delivered because people were too afraid to go outside. He understood now though, that “hell” was too weak of a descriptor to truly describe the state of the city.

With their partnership with Abstergo, the DUP’s budged seemed to explode overnight. Sections of the city he had previously been able to frequent without many issues (as the DUP had previously only focused on the heavily populated areas) were suddenly crawling with agents, and never before had he seen so many inspection points in the city, though he was not naïve enough to believe they acted as anything more than just a reason to throw “potential conduits” (innocents, more often than not) into containment areas, after which they’d been shipped off to—actually, he wasn’t entirely certain where they went. He was willing to bet it wasn’t anywhere pleasant, though.

The real icing on the cake though, was the fact that posters targeting him were starting to pop up. He had been recognized, some guard (or camera) had seen his face, and it had been reported back to Vidic. Vidic knew he was alive, and just as he had all that time ago, was attempting to hunt him down. “HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN” boldly emblazoned the posters, which seemed to be plastered against every smooth surface, and though the photo they had of him, taken back when he was first captured by Abstertgo, wasn’t the most accurate representations (he had lost a lot of weight since then, his face was thinner and the light in his eyes was dimmer than in that photo) it was good enough for DUP agents and passer-byers to identify him if they got a good enough look of him.

Already, he had heard the muffled, alarmed whispers as he passed people on the street as they connected him to the posters; he never stuck around long enough for them to make a phone call about him, though. Had he not willingly killed off Ennio, had he not willingly dropped the persona he had taken so much time to create, he might have complained about the sudden turn of events. He had never been comfortable in that façade, though, no matter how desperately he tried to be. Ennio had been what he could have been, had he ever had a chance to make his own choices and live a somewhat normal life. Someone who had gone to college specifically for mixology, with the dream of one day opening up his own bar. Someone who lived a simple life, and took each day as it was. Ennio had been average, Ennio had been normal, and Ennio had been boring.

And as much as he already missed being average, Desmond wasn’t about to deny that he was happier when he had a sense of purpose. He was throwing himself back into a war he had thought he’d escaped, he was putting himself back into a situation that had already almost killed him once, but at least he had a purpose. He wasn’t just some bartender mixing drinks for weekend partiers, he was someone who was making a difference. And even if the world didn’t know him beyond the wanted posters, at least he was doing something. The difference between this time and last time: everything he was doing, he was doing of his own free will. Everything was on his terms, nobody was expecting him to play a role just because of his bloodlines.

There was something liberating in being able to make his own choices.

Breath clouding in the cool evening air, Desmond fumbled with the keys to Delsin’s apartment, the slight shake to his hands a product of both the chilly evening (he was drenched from the sudden rainstorm, and the cold from his clothes seemed to seep into the very marrow of his bones, chilling him from the inside out) and the adrenaline that came with leaving the apartment. Every time he left, there was no guarantee he would come back alive (unlike when he worked with the Assassins, there was no “safe” space in this city) and he was lucky every night he got to come back. Scarred fingers twisted the doorknob, and a quick shove from his shoulder forced the door open (it stuck, more often than not) and stepped into the messy living room, mindlessly tossing his bag down on one of the armchairs, automatically shutting and locking the slightly warped door behind him.

He had never intended to move in with Delsin. Officially, he still had his apartment on the other side of town. Technically, he still lived there, but his stuff had long-since migrated over to Delsin’s. With how often they had to collaborate and bounced ideas off of each other involving their current situation with the DUP and Abstergo partnership, it was just easier for them to live together. That was the excuse they used for the current situation, anyway. In reality, while the offer had never been explicitly made, Delsin hadn’t ever been shy at suggesting that Desmond just stay the night rather than attempt to cross town, and eventually they fell into a pleasurable routine—truth be told, Desmond didn’t mind living with Delsin. He didn’t want to leave, and until their situation became uncomfortable, he didn’t see any harm in staying with the other.

Since he had been sleeping on the couch, the once near-barren living room had become something of a disaster zone. Clothes (both his and Delsin’s) were draped haphazardly against nearly every piece of furniture—they had gotten a second lounge chair!—save for the television, which remained pointedly clear for their movie nights. The kitchen now had more food in it than it ever had before (the result of Desmond forcing Delsin to go grocery shopping with him) and though there were still a few takeout boxes sitting on the counter, Desmond had gladly taken advantage of having a working stove and had actually managed to put together a few basic meals. More often than not, they had dinner together, and talked about everything and anything that didn’t involve the war they were fighting; in the past couple of weeks, he had gotten to know Delsin better than he had ever thought he would, something that both excited and scared him.

Attention drifting to the kitchen—Delsin wasn’t home yet, he still had a chance to start cooking something—a slight frown creased Desmond’s expression, and his shoulders slumped in quiet defeat. It was getting harder and harder to ignore his want to brush up against Delsin to see if that burst of color (something that still haunted his dreams, when they weren’t of memories that didn’t belong to him but rather to his long-dead ancestors) would once again light up his world. He had been able to resist earlier on the basis that he didn’t know Delsin and would probably never get to know him that well. Now that they were living together, though, that logic had flown out the window, leaving him grasping at straws as to why he shouldn’t touch the conduit. It wasn’t like it would be hard to brush against him; more than once, he had seen Delsin reach for him, only to stop and draw his hand back, undoubtedly in response to the many times Desmond had withdrawn from him after a near-incident.

Staring down at his hands, Desmond slowly clenched his fingers into fists, conflict and uncertainty raging like a storm within him, before he gaze a quick shake of his head and quickly relaxed his fingers. It was foolish of him to be worrying about this right now, wasn’t it? They were in the middle of a war—one that was quite literally life or death—and here he was, thinking about the fact that he had a little crush on Delsin, and was afraid of acting on it because he was afraid of being rejected. He quite literally had better things to be doing than worrying about his (non-existent) love live, he had other things he could focus on, so why was this absolutely consuming him? Even when he had been crushing on Lucy, it hadn’t been like this. It hadn’t been all encompassing, like an itch under his skin that he just couldn’t reach, no matter how hard he tried. Feeling frustrated—both with himself and with the situation—Desmond slowly released the breath he hadn’t known he was holding in a sort of exasperated sigh, before forcing himself to take a step towards the kitchen. It was only when he came back here that he started to dwell on thoughts better left unvoiced; it was part of why he tried to stay out of the apartment until the evenings, when he could be properly distracted.

“And he finally moves! I think that’s the longest someone has gone without noticing me. Not sure if I should be offended or concerned about this, honestly. Granted, you did look like you were in pretty deep thought. Didn’t hurt anything, did you?” Delsin said. He had walked into the apartment a few minutes prior to Desmond stepping toward the kitchen, and while it most likely would have been a better idea to announce his presence immediately (Desmond was still wound tight), he had decided to wait and see how long it would take Desmond to notice him. It was more likely than not a poor decision to make.

Panic engulfed Desmond at the sudden voice behind him. In an instant, his heartbeat suddenly seemed to slam against his ribs (threatening to break them with each panicked thud) and his breath caught in his throat. Images of Abstergo agents flashed before his eyes, and for just a moment, he could have sworn he heard Vidic’s cold voice slithering against his skin, sending a chill down to his very core. Surrounded by his hallucinations, he did not realize who had spoken—at least, not until he had slammed Delsin against the wall and pressed his hidden blade (something he had started wearing after he was attacked by the DUP agent) against his throat, gold having replaced usual amber irises, body tensed and obviously prepared for a fight. 

_(GOOD MORNING MISTER MILES GET IN THE ANIMUS MISTER MILES ARE YOU READY TO GET TO WORK MISTER MILES WHERE IS THE APPLE THE APPLE THE APPLE GET IN THE ANIMUS DESMOND THE LIBERATION OF ROMA HAS BEGUN I WANTED TO BE AN ASTRONAUT DESMOND ARE YOU OKAY GRAND MASTER ASSASSIN SIT IN THE CORNER AND CRY QUIETLY GOOD MORNING MISTER MILES DESMOND SHUT THE FUCK UP GOOD MORNING MISTER MILES WHERE IS THE APPLE WHERE IS THE APPLE WHERE IS THE APPLE THE APPLE OF EDEN THE APPLE OF EDEN MISTER MILES)_

With a start, Desmond jerked back from Delsin, guilt briefly eating at him as he saw a small bit of blood drip down the conduit’s neck. Panic still clawed at his throat, threatening to rip it out and crush it between sharp nails, and voices that were not his still shouted at him in his head, muddling his mind until he wasn’t sure who he was, and what memories belonged to him. Enough of Desmond had remained to recognize Delsin despite the broken screaming in his mind, though—and that was the only reason he hadn’t done more than scratch against his neck. Eyes wide, he stared at Delsin for a moment or two, before forcibly turning away, desperately clutching at the fabric of the arm chair and forcing himself to breath, attempting to center himself again, to calm the screaming in his head and pounding of his heart. 

Yeah, that had been a bad idea. Eyes widening at the extreme reaction (just what happened to this guy?) Delsin chose to stay still rather than shove Desmond back at the sudden attack, fearing that even the slightest movement would only further set this guy off. He was not scared of Desmond, no, but he would be lying if he said those golden eyes didn’t make him feel uncomfortable. There was a certain madness to them, something that pierced through him sharper than any weapon could have, and he could feel goose bumps steadily breaking out on his arms as something in his mind desperately screamed that there was something not right about those eyes. He had made a bad choice, and as he watched Desmond jerk away and seemingly desperately attempt to collect himself, he couldn’t help but feel the weight of guilt settle against his chest. Way to go, Delsin, you majorly fucked up all because you wanted to play a little joke on someone. Roommate of the year award definitely went to him for this, didn’t it? Fantastic! 

“Sorry, that was a dick move of me.” When Delsin spoke, he did it quietly, his gaze dropped as he made an effort to stare anywhere but at Desmond, his arms awkwardly hanging at his sides, hands completely exposed and not in his pockets. He was behaving the same way he would if Desmond had been some sort of cornered, wounded animal; he was making sure that he was not seen as a threat while simultaneously showing that he had absolutely no intentions of causing any (further) harm. He could only hope that he didn’t further fuck up the situation—he kind of had a talent for doing just that, though.

Delsin’s words fell on nearly-deaf ears. They were little more than a soft buzz at the back of Desmond’s mind, overshadowed by much louder, more persistent voices that continued to scratch and tear at the inside of his mind in a desperate attempt to escape. Yet, he was not entirely oblivious to Delsin; while he didn’t register exactly what the other was saying, he recognized the tone he was speaking in, he read the nonverbal cues Delsin’s relaxed posture gave him. He could not hear him, but he could see him, and for once that was enough. Bit by bit, Desmond shoved back his panic, and bit by bit, the voices quieted, until they were just louder than the volume present in a casual conversation. Not entirely silenced, but quiet enough that he could ignore them in favor for what was going on in the real world. 

Slowly, Desmond pushed himself off of the armchair and straightened his shoulders, entirely embarrassed over what had just happened. Despite his embarrassment, he forced himself to look at Delsin, meeting his eyes after just a few more heartbeats of uncertainty. Piercing gold had faded into volatile amber, and there was still a definite tension to his body; while he was recovering from the attack, it was clear that it would take a while until he entirely calmed down. Unable to hold Delsin’s gaze for longer than a few seconds, Desmond’s attention trailed down to Delsin’s neck, fixing on the (now healed) spot where he had cut against his skin. Though there was no scar from the incident, it was doubtful that he would ever forget that spot. Not while the guilt continued to eat at him, anyway. 

“I know this is your place, but let’s try a hello first next time, yeah?” Desmond breathed, quiet exhaustion in the comment, “You barely qualify, but you’re an innocent, and I’m not exactly keen on the idea of—hurting you.” He stumbled over those last words, wanting to say “betraying the Creed” as opposed to “hurting you,” but that was nothing more than a result of the lingering presences still attempting to force their words through his mouth; not to mention the fact that such a cryptic statement would only open the door to more questions he didn’t particularly feel like answering right now. Considering what had just happened, he would be shocked if Delsin didn’t have something to ask him. Personally, he’d start with the “why the fuck did you just almost stab me,” but that was just his preference. 

“Yeah, I know, I fucked up,” Delsin muttered. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was relieved that Desmond’s gaze was no longer that piercing gold, but rather (a variation of) the amber he’d grown so peculiarly fond of. “Granted, I was expecting you to yell at me or something, not nearly stab me. You must be a real thrill at parties.” 

“—considering I used to be a bartender, I’m actually quite the favorite at parties,” Desmond muttered, gratefully taking the joke and running with it. “Sorry for almost stabbing you. It wasn’t intentional.” Before their situation could get any more awkward (hah) Desmond forced himself to turn away from Delsin again and placed one heavy foot after the other, making his way into the kitchen. He had been planning to make some sort of dinner before the whole ordeal had happened, with the hopes of clearing his mind of any pesky lingering thoughts. And while those pesky lingering thoughts definitely weren’t on the same level as before, he was hoping the practice would work the same. 

Methodically, he pulled the ingredients from the fridge. He was going to make calzones tonight: he’d need the pizza dough, cheese, sauce, and other various fillings. The oven would have to be set at four hundred degrees and allowed to pre-heat, meaning he should probably do that first. And he couldn’t forget to spray down the aluminum sheet, otherwise the calzones would stick and then the whole thing would just be a disaster. He’d wash his hands after he sprayed down the pan and started the oven, as it didn’t make sense to wash them only to dirty them again. 

Though he had initially hesitated, Delsin found himself trailing behind Desmond, uncomfortable with the tension humming between them. Quietly, he watched as Desmond got to work in the kitchen (mentally taking notes, even though every time he tried to cook it ended in disaster) and settled against the wall, awkwardly leaning back against it and stuffing his hands into the pocket of his hoodie. 

“You’ve kind of got a thing for knives, huh?” Delsin questioned after a moment in an attempt to break the silence stretching between them.

“What do you mean?” Desmond questioned after a moment, brows furrowing as he carefully kneaded the pizza dough, “This is the first time I’ve almost stabbed you, isn’t it?” Granted, he’d been carrying his hidden blade for a while now—perhaps Delsin was referencing that? Regardless, a quiet unease brushed against Desmond at the sudden shift in conversation, and though he kept his attention firmly fixed on the dough before him, he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little bit nervous at the sudden topic. 

“Bud, if you can’t remember how many times you’ve stabbed someone, it’s probably a bad sign,” Delsin chuckled, though the sound was slightly forced, “I found throwing knives when you were attacked by the DUP agent. I assumed they were yours, and I assume that’s how you managed to survive for as long as you have.” Before Desmond could comment, Delsin continued, nonchalance rich in his voice. “I’m still impressed by that, by the way. It’s kinda cool. I mean, you’re really fucking weird and that’s coming from your resident conduit, but I’m still impressed.”

So that’s where those had gone. He had gone back to that corner in the hopes of finding those blades, only to find they had vanished; he had assumed someone had picked them up and taken them. It was something of a relief to learn that they had been under Delsin’s watch instead. Silence stretched between them as Desmond slowly mulled over how to answer Delsin’s comment. He couldn’t find a good way to. In theory, he could ignore what the other had said—though that was incredibly rude, and Delsin wasn’t the type to be ignored—but focusing on the question was giving him a slightly more stable ledge to stand on. 

“I was wondering where those went,” Desmond voiced finally, carefully grating cheese for the calzones, “I went back to that area after I healed up a bit more and was slightly worried when they weren’t there. Yeah, you weren’t the only one impressed. I think that’s why he let me live for as long as he did; he wasn’t used to civilians fighting back.” He wasn’t certain if that answered Delsin’s comment entirely, but it was the closest thing to an answer he was willing to give right now. Each word was spoken slowly, carefully, something that was both a result of the question and the fact that he still wasn’t entirely himself. 

“Do you think you could take me in a fight? Like, if we went one on one, no powers? Just bare fists?” A grin briefly curved Delsin’s lips, amusement flashing in his eyes as he watched Desmond grate the cheese; he hadn’t expected an answer, so the fact he had received one from Desmond absolutely thrilled him. 

“You mean if you weren’t a conduit? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I would kick your ass. Actually,” for a moment, Desmond paused, before he scoffed and returned to his task, “I’m absolutely sure I would kick your ass if you weren’t a conduit.” 

“Wait a second, wait a second—you’re not going to even give me a fighting chance? Not even a pity pass? The only thing that came from being a conduit were these super awesome abilities, they didn’t change my brawling ability at all,” Delsin sputtered, the previous amusement dropping from his expression as he scowled at Desmond’s back. Sure, he was willing to bet Desmond was good, but good enough that he didn’t even get a chance to defend himself? He’d been in his share of fights as a kid, and Reggie had made sure to teach him self-defense (mainly because of the fights he had gotten into as a kid.) And while Desmond didn’t know much about Reggie, he did know that he was a cop and that they were brothers. Maybe he’d forgotten to factor that into his answer. 

“Yeah, I know that,” Desmond shrugged, having moved on to assembling the inside of the calzones. First the sauce, then the cheese, followed by whatever toppings he felt like putting on. After the innards were finished, he carefully folded the dough over and pinched the edges together, quiet satisfaction welling within him as he admired the food before him; he’d never been much good at cooking, but that didn’t mean that he didn’t enjoy it. “I also know how I grew up, and what I’ve been through. Trust me when I say that, if the playing field was level, I’d kick your ass in hand to hand combat.” 

It was a cryptic sentence, and it was more than likely that he would never actually understand it. Mild concern brushing against him, Delsin’s brows furrowed at Desmond as he took a moment to simply study the other man—mind flashing back to when Desmond had taken off his shirt, and he had seen the multitude of scars wrapping against his body—before he gave a slight shake of his head. He should have picked a better conversation topic. Once again, awkward silence settled between them, broken only by the sounds of Desmond putting the final touches on dinner, before shoving the calzones into the oven and setting the timer.

Turning to Delsin, Desmond took a moment to observe him, mild confusion curling within him as he attempted to figure out why he had stayed when their conversation had fallen so flat. Guilt nagged at him once again, this time a result of the fact that it had been his fault that the conversation had died, and he found himself wanting to reach out and playfully snag Delsin’s beanie. The urge was something better left unacted on, though, or so he quietly told himself. 

“—I’m sorry about earlier,” Desmond finally said, a hand coming up to rub at one of his sleeves in a manner that mirrored that of a sheepish child, “I just don’t handle jump scares and whatnot well. Don’t take me to a haunted house, it never ends well.” Cracking a smile, Desmond offered Delsin a slight shrug, though he was anxious to hear Delsin’s response to the apology. It wasn’t that he expected forgiveness—in his mind, he didn’t deserve it—but he wanted at least an acknowledgement, an understanding that his fucked up reactions hadn’t put too much of a strain on their friendship.

“It’s okay, Des. I—thank you.” Pausing, Delsin struggled to actually acknowledge the apology rather than just brush it off; they had both fucked up, after all. “Sorry for just kind of sneaking up on you like that. It won’t happen again.” The thought of those eyes—bright gold, filled with an emotion he couldn’t place (or rather, wouldn’t place)—still gave him the chills; the absolute last thing he wanted was to see them again. No, that wasn’t quite right. The absolutely last thing he wanted was to be the cause of those gold eyes returning. 

“Are you okay, though?” It was an incredibly stupid question, he knew, but it was something he had to ask. As unsettled as he was by today’s peculiar twist of events, he couldn’t imagine what it was like for the guy who had gone through—well, whatever the hell Desmond had just gone through. 

It had been a long time since he’d been asked if he was okay. The only one who had ever bothered to ask him had been Lucy, and for just a moment, her concerned words joined the echo of voices lingering in his mind, the memories bittersweet at best. It was funny, wasn’t it? That the only person who had (previously) shown him even the slightest bit of compassion had been working for the other side? Yeah, it was a real kick in the crotch. 

Caught off guard by Delsin’s words, Desmond found himself struggling to come up with a response, entirely uncertain on how to reply. Immediately, the usual joke and laugh came to his lips and hovered against his tongue. It was how he had always answered (deflecting the question with a joke, as he didn’t want people to worry about him when they literally had the weight of the world on their shoulders) questions like that, so why was it suddenly so hard to respond? Maybe he was running out of lies—or maybe he was tired of lying. 

“I’m as okay as it gets,” Desmond finally said, a hollow smile briefly crossing his expressions as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Don’t worry about it, Delsin. I’ll be fine.” With those words, he knowingly admitted to the fact that he was not okay, but could he really have said anything different considering what Delsin had witnessed today? Fingers briefly laced together, squeezing at each other in a quiet anxiety, before Desmond went and sat down at the battered thing they called a kitchen table. It had been a table for playing cards at one point—to the point where you could still see bits of felt on the table top—and the only chairs they had been able to rummage up were folding chairs, but it was better than eating standing at the counters. After the last incident (which involved hot soup, and a now further ruined couch) they weren’t allowed to eat in the living room anymore. 

If he not had a question to ask Desmond, Delsin would have considered retreating to the living room. Every attempt he had made at conversation had fallen flat, and while he had never been shy when it came to talking to people, it was hard to talk to someone who didn’t want to talk to you—or at least, that was how it seemed. He was nothing short of tenacious, though; the question lingering against his lips had been itching at him for a long time, and this was the first chance he’d had to ask it. He wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass; he wasn’t naïve enough to believe he’d get another opportunity, considering how things were going with the city. 

With that in mind, Delsin made his way over to the table and lazily sat down in the opposing chair, a hand coming up to absently snatch the beanie off his head so he could run his fingers through his hair, flashing a cocky sort of grin at Desmond, nonchalance rich in the gestures. Desmond wasn’t going to get out of talking to him that easily; technically, this was his apartment. The guy was going to have to talk to him whether he really wanted to or not, and since dinner was going to be ready soon, he really doubted Desmond would get offended into leaving any time soon. 

“So, I was talking to some people today,” Delsin began, teasingly throwing the beanie at Desmond.

“You mean soaking up their praise and compliments? Did you get anyone else wanting you to be the father of their children?” Desmond interrupted, snickering as he caught the beanie with his un-bandaged hand and arching a brow at Delsin, “Please tell me you didn’t accept. I don’t think you want to be a father at such a young age.” 

“Shut up! I was very flattered that she wanted me to be the father of her kids—it was really weird, yeah—but it was still flattering! Asshole, you’re just jealous you didn’t get the same offer,” Delsin retorted with a chuckle, another grin crossing his face as he leant forward, elbows resting against the questionable surface of the table, “Let me finish my sentence, it’s going to be worth listening to.” Before Desmond could speak again, Delsin continued on, speaking louder than he had previously in an attempt to playfully drown out Desmond’s commentary.

“I was talking to some people, and apparently it’s more common to not see in color than to see in color.” Desmond’s surprise when he had said he saw in color had struck up a curiosity within the conduit, leading him to question the few people he knew about it. Eugene and Fetch had said they saw in color, as did Reggie, but everyone else he had talked to had said they didn’t—so his next question had been why. Why could he (as well as his small group of friends, excluding Desmond) see in color, when so much of the world couldn’t? Why couldn’t so many people see in color? Try as he may, he hadn’t been able to find a satisfactory answer to his many questions, and he wasn’t about to bother Betty until he got the cure for what he’d done, so here he was. Now it was a question of whether or not Desmond would actually talk to him about it. 

Previous cheer briefly faded from Desmond’s expression, his fingers immediately tightening around the beanie as he took a moment to process what Delsin had told him. This was not a topic he was exactly keen on talking about, considering he was almost certain on where this conversation was headed, but at the same time a peculiar sort of relief was quickly threading through him, like stitches closing an open wound. With a great effort, Desmond forced his fingers to relax in the beanie, and instead offered Delsin a casual sort of shrug, as though this topic hadn’t caught him by surprise. 

“Yeah, that’s why I was surprised when you said you already saw in color,” he commented, “I’m guessing you never heard the urban legend as to why most people don’t see in color, though? And you say I grew up under a rock.” A soft scoff escaped Desmond at his words, though the sound was slightly forced, his attention focused on his hands rather than directly on Delsin. When he hadn’t believed in the legend, he had been able to speak about it with ease and even mock it. Now, the words seemed to stick in his throat, gumming at his mouth until it felt as though he was speaking with shattered glass in his mouth; if he wasn’t careful, he’d cut himself. 

“Nobody would give me an explanation of what the legend was,” Delsin muttered, a sudden bout of nerves twisting his stomach, though he kept his attention firmly fixed on Desmond. Whatever that legend was, he wanted to know it, especially as he watched Desmond twist and squirm with what he assumed to be embarrassment. It was either embarrassment or unease, he couldn’t quite tell. “What is it? I’ve been told that people can see in color, but I wasn’t told why.” Probably because the DUP had some fantastic timing, and right before anyone could really sit down and tell him, decided to show up and wreck his afternoon. Reggie had been no help, either, insisting that they weren’t here to listen to fairy tales and that he’d tell him about it once they got home. 

“I—it’s kind of stupid,” Desmond warned after a moment of consideration, “but I guess I might as well help you out. I mean, you’re slowly getting the rock off of me by apparently making me watch Disney movies, after all.” Taking a deep breath, Desmond slowly exhaled, shoulders slumping with the quiet sound before he leant back in his chair and crossed his arms against his chest. “So basically, the story goes something like this: people are born into this world unable to see in color. Instead, they see in varying shades of gray, black, and white. For a lot of people, this is the norm for them, and they never get a chance to see what the world really looks like that, whatever that means. Anyway, the legend says that there is a way for people to see in color, but it’s absolutely ridiculous.” Bittersweet, that was the best way to describe what he was feeling now, the best way to describe the sudden shift in his tone. The whole concept of a soul mate was entirely ridiculous to him. At least, that’s what he was aggressively attempting to believe. 

“It’s said that once someone finds their “soul mate” they’re suddenly able to see in color. In fact, that’s how you know who your soul mate is.”

“Wait, so once you find your soul mate you’re supposed to be able to see in color? How does that work? Do you look at someone and you’re just suddenly able to see in color?” Delsin questioned, brows furrowing as he leaned further in interest. As ridiculous as the concept was, he couldn’t bring himself to laugh about it; instead, he was more concerned by the fact that he already saw in color. What did it mean? Had he already met his so-called soul mate, and just hadn’t realized it? Had he just happened to look at someone and suddenly been granted the ability to see in color? Question after question burned at him, demanding to be asked, though he feared that if he let all his questions loose at once, Desmond would stop talking about the subject. He had too much he needed to know to risk Desmond shutting down on him. 

“No, you’ve got to touch them,” Desmond muttered, a slight amusement echoing in his words, “shit, if you only had to look at them that would be so bad. You just happen to look at someone in a crowd and suddenly you can briefly see in color, only for that to disappear as soon as you lose sight of them.”

“So the color thing is temporary then?” Delsin questioned, fingers threading through his hair as he attempted to process all the information being thrown at him, “You’ve got to constantly be touching the person to see in color? That seems really shitty, actually, if you have to constantly be glued to a person’s side to be able to see the world in color.”

“Not…exactly,” Desmond said slowly, uncertainty halting his words, “there’s another rumor going around that you’ll be able to see in color for as long as your “soul mate” is in love with you. So whenever they love you, you suddenly get to see in color, regardless of whether or not they’re touching you.” It went unsaid that the ability would be taken away should the soul mate ever fall “out” of love. “I don’t know how much I believe it, though. It seems kind of far-fetched. Like I said, all of this is just some sort of urban legend. I wouldn’t stress over it too much.”

While it was nice to know that he hadn’t seen his soul mate in passing and suddenly gotten the gift of seeing in color, Delsin found he still had more questions than answers. This was something he’d never heard of growing up, and as far as he knew, everyone back home had been able to see in color, regardless of whether or not they were in a relationship with someone. Biting at his lower lip, Delsin took a moment to look down at his fingers, hands quietly clenching into fists and unclenching as uncertainty chewed at him. Was this part of why Desmond was so averse to touch? Did he not want to risk the rumor being more than a rumor—did he already know that the rumor was true? Question after question slammed into Delsin, all demanding to be asked, and he couldn’t figure out the best place to start. 

“Do you believe in the legend?” Delsin asked finally, attention once again focusing on Desmond. Though he was not consciously aware of it, a slight edge had started to press against him, a need to know swirling in his blood and echoing with each beat of his heart. For whatever reason, that question was important to him—he needed to know whether or not Desmond believed it, and he needed to know why he was so against even brushing against someone. There was so much that he didn’t know about Desmond, that he was hungry for even the smallest bit of information. 

The buzz of the oven’s timer saved Desmond from having to immediately answer Delsin’s question. 

Nearly jumping out of his skin at the sudden noise, Desmond was quick to scramble to his feet, turning himself away from the intensity of Delsin’s gaze. Goosebumps—hidden by his sweatshirt—had broken out across his arms and across his back. There was something unsettling about Delsin’s sudden investment in the topic, in the questions he was asking. Something in the conduit had focused, and he wasn’t entirely certain how he felt about it. 

Grabbing an oven mitt, Desmond pulled the calzones out of the oven and set them on the cutting board, taking a quiet moment to collect his thoughts under the guise of admiring his creation. Golden brown, flaky crust, cheese oozing out from the small holes he had left—the calzones looked absolutely delicious. Too bad he suddenly wasn’t all that hungry. 

“Yeah, I believe in the legend,” Desmond said finally, turning back to Delsin with a tired sort of smile. “Probably sound incredibly stupid saying that, but I do.” 

“Is that why you’re so against even brushing against someone? Afraid of suddenly having your world slammed with color?” Delsin questioned, eyes scanning Desmond’s face, desperately trying to read every bit of emotion he could. 

“Yeah, I guess it is,” Desmond muttered, entirely unwilling to admit to the fact that he wasn’t against touch from most people, entirely unwilling to admit that he had already seen the sudden flash of colors—and the culprit was sitting in front of him. “I don’t know what the fact you already see in color means, so don’t bother asking me. Believe it or not, that’s literally all I know about the subject. I never really took much interest in it. Never had the time to.” 

“So let me get this right: you believe in the whole soul mate color theory, but you’re scared of brushing against people just because they might actually be your soul mate? ‘Cause that’s what I’m hearing, and that sounds like a really shitty way to live. What’s the point of living if you’re not willing to take a few risks? That doesn’t sound like much of a life to me.” Without hesitation, Delsin extended a hand toward Desmond, a smile lingering on his lips as he shot the other a challenging sort of look. He wasn’t certain what he expected to happen—he wasn’t certain if he even believed in the story—but he wasn’t about to wait around and sit in a world of uncertainty. Life was too short to be afraid. 

Incredulous laughter bubbled in Desmond’s chest as he listened to Delsin’s words and studied the hand that had extended towards him, begging to be taken. He was not amused by Delsin’s words—no, those had been rather deep, even if they had fallen upon deaf ears—but rather by the situation presented to him. When he had first come here, he had come with the intention of doing two things: returning Delsin’s license, and finding a reason to brush against him to see if that night at the club had been some sort of weird fluke. Where he had been able to give the license back without any issues, he had failed (again and again) to bring himself to touch Delsin. He had been, and still was, afraid of what would happen when he did so. 

And yet here Delsin was, effortlessly crossing the gap that had kept him at a standstill for so long. Whether it was because he could already see in color and thus wasn’t running any risk, or because he honestly believed that it was best to just rip off the band aid, Desmond wasn’t sure. In the end, it didn’t matter; Delsin was still attempting to bridge that gap. All he had to do was meet him halfway. Get busy living, or get busy dying. 

Before he had the chance to back out of it, Desmond stepped forward and effortlessly tangled his fingers with Delsin’s hand, momentarily surprised by just how warm the conduit’s hands were. His surprise over the warmth only lasted for a moment, though, for as soon as their hands touched, Desmond’s world was thrown into color, making his breath catch and his heartbeat stutter. Dimly, he was aware of the fact that everything around him had suddenly gained color, and had he been able to, he would have looked around the room just to see things how they really were. That just wasn’t something that was possible for him right now, though; the second his world had been thrown into color, Delsin had captured his attention.

That night in the club, he had been too surprised to really look at Delsin. He hadn’t been expecting the sudden burst, and by the time he had had the chance to realize what had happened, it was over. This time, he had gone in knowing exactly what to expect. That wasn’t the case this time, though, and he was absolutely captivated. Quietly, he admired the way Delsin’s hair (it was dark, like what he assumed dark chocolate looked like) framed face, just as he admired the way his skin (tanned, as he had expected) seemed to carry a slight red tinge—was he embarrassed by this?—and the way his lips curved in an easy going smile. What he admired the most though, were Delsin’s eyes. They were dark, and had he not spent his life seeing varying shades of blacks and grays, he would have assumed they were black instead of the rich brown they really were. Those dark depths were filled with an undeniable fire, a wordless challenge to anything he went up against; once upon a time, before he had grown weary under the weight of the world, Desmond had seen the same gleam in his own eyes. 

Their contact only lasted for a minute before Desmond pulled his hand back, the colors disappearing from his vision as quickly as they had come. In an instant, Desmond suddenly felt cold, a quiet chill ghosting across the back of his neck as he blinked rapidly in an attempt to adjust to a world of monochrome. He could feel a dull ache rising in his chest, twisting at him until it felt as though the very marrow of his bones was contaminated. Each hammer of his heart seemed to threaten to crack his ribs, and each breath seemed to stick in his lungs, threatening to collapse them as he desperately attempted to get his world under control once again. It was like skidding on ice; once you got enough momentum, there was no safe way to stop. 

“So, did you have some sort of big revelation? Did I suddenly change your world?” Delsin questioned, previous smile stretching into a relaxed sort of grin as soft laughter danced against his lips. “Did I take your breath away?” Though he wasn’t about to admit it, part of him wished that that contact had gone on a little while longer. There had been something oddly comforting about lazily tangling his fingers with Desmond’s. It was almost as if, in those few fleeting moments, the weight of everything resting on his shoulders had eased, and he’d been able to breathe again. It’d been something he hadn’t felt since he’d gotten Betty and the rest of the Tribe attacked by Augustine. 

Briefly, he considered lying. And maybe that would have been the best decision to make, but as Desmond opened his mouth, he found himself speaking the truth, the words falling from his lips before he had the chance to stop them. 

“Your eyes are pretty dark, but they’re not black,” Desmond said. It was the first thing that had been on his mind, and while he couldn’t help but mentally cringe at the fact that that had been what he had said, there was no stopping the words anymore. “I used to have the same gleam in my eyes, before a whole bunch of shit went down. I—it’s good to see that you still have passion in you. Kinda amused by that little red tint to your cheeks, though. Were you embarrassed to be holding hands with me? You’re the one who suggested it.” Slowly, Desmond moved so his hands were shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, heat warming his cheeks as he forced himself to keep his attention on Delsin. 

“I never said I avoided touching everyone, Delsin. Just you. You know that moment when we brushed in the club that first night? That’s when it happened. When I came to return your license? It wasn’t just to return it—I also wanted to see if that night had been a fluke. Only I backed out, because I was afraid of what would happen if it hadn’t been a fluke. I never expected to get to know you, and I figured that I could live with everything just as long as that remained a fact.” He was speaking quickly, yet each word was carefully pronounced and distinct. He wanted to speak before Delsin had a chance to collect his thoughts, before Delsin had a chance to realize what he was saying. Once again, he was afraid. He had no idea how Delsin was going to react to the fact that he had admitted to seeing in color when they touched, and part of him didn’t want to know how Delsin was going to react. 

“Guess that idea didn’t work out too well, huh? Anyway, yeah, there you go. Now you know why I’ve always done my best to avoid coming in contact with you, even when I’m half dead and probably should let you help me out.” He was, of course, referring to the DUP agent instance, when he had seen Delsin shut down under the assumption that he wouldn’t touch him because he was a conduit. If nothing else, this little reveal would clear up any misconceptions Delsin might have had about how he felt about him being a conduit. 

Shoulders stiff, Desmond turned his back on Delsin, hiding the shake of his hands as he reached for the calzones and numbly slid them onto two separate plates. They were cool enough to eat now, though the cheese was likely to still be a little hot on the inside, and he needed to soak the tray unless he wanted to be scraping cheese remnants from it for the next hour. Mechanically, Desmond found himself settling the pan in the sink and coating it liberally with dish soap, watching as bubbles sprang up the instant he turned on the water. The voices, which had previously been screaming in his mind, had long-since gone quiet, leaving him entirely alone in the near-suffocating silence that stretched between him and Delsin. 

Part of him wanted to laugh and proclaim that his previous statements had been a joke, that he had been making this up the entire time. There was no way he could take back his words now, though. Scooping up the plates, Desmond wordlessly dropped one in front of Delsin before going and taking a seat at the table, only realizing he had forgotten the silverware once he’d already taken a seat. Whatever appetite he had previously had had long-since disappeared, though; the food was more for decoration than anything else at this point. 

“Wait, so you knew this entire time? You knew that if you touched me, you’d suddenly see in color? That we were—are—soul mates or some shit like that?” Delsin finally managed, disbelief rich in his tone as he attempted to sort out everything he had just been told, for once not absolutely devouring the food placed in front of him. All in all, he didn’t entirely know how to handle this. It made sense why Desmond didn’t tell him (how the hell were you supposed to tell someone they were probably your soul mate?) but he couldn’t help but feel a touch frustrated by the fact that he was just now learning this. “That’s why you almost died that day instead of accepting my help? You could have bled out! You should have, I don’t know, you should have—“

“Told you?” Desmond questioned, the sudden edge in his voice almost enough to draw blood. “When you told me that you already see in color? Yeah, that sounds like a really smart move right there, doesn’t it? I told you, I wasn’t planning on getting involved in any of this. I wasn’t planning on us becoming friends, and I wasn’t planning on living with you. It just kind of happened.” 

“Yeah, you should have told me! Maybe not immediately, but fuck, Desmond, you shouldn’t have kept this a fucking secret for so long!” Delsin exclaimed, head shaking as he scrambled to find the right words for what he wanted to say. The problem was, he didn’t know what he wanted to say. He didn’t know how he felt about this whole situation, aside from the fact that it felt like his heart might beat out of his chest and that his palms were oddly sweaty. What would he have even done, if he’d known earlier? He didn’t know. And maybe that was why this was so hard for him: he didn’t know. 

“What was I supposed to say, Delsin? Tell me, what was I supposed to say? I wasn’t planning on getting involved in this!” Frustration coated Desmond’s words, his gaze narrowing as he slammed his hands down on the table. It felt as though they were going around in circles, with the blame being slammed onto him each time. He knew he’d fucked up, he knew that he should have said something sooner. He didn’t need to be reminded of the fact that he’d done the wrong thing. His life could be described as one big fuck up, after all. 

Whether it was the change in Desmond’s tone, or the fact that he had slammed his hands down on the table, something in Delsin’s expression changed. Startled by the sudden shift, Delsin found himself sitting back against his chair the way a scolded child might, attention suddenly fixed on the food before him rather than on Desmond. A storm of indecision raged within the conduit, uncertainty picking at him and twisting him as he attempted to come up with a response to everything that had happened. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that Desmond saw color when he touched him—that hadn’t fully sunk in, actually—but rather by the fact that it had taken Desmond so long to tell him. He had assumed they’d become friends quite a while back; had he been wrong about that?

He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know the right words to make this better. All he knew was that he’d pushed a little too hard, and Desmond had snapped. Stomach twisting, Delsin shook his head and slowly stood up, grabbing his beanie and moodily pulling it back on. He’d done nothing but fuck everything up tonight. Once more, he glanced at Desmond, before turning and walking out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him with a definite “thud.” He wasn’t certain where he was going, he wasn’t certain what he was going to do, but he’d only screw things up more if he stayed. 

As Delsin walked away, Desmond felt his heart sinking. It was only once the door had slammed shut that he allowed his head to fall into his hands, fingers pressing against his temples as he took a few moments to attempt to collect himself as tension subtly shook his shoulders. Too much had happened tonight, from his near-breakdown to the reveal that Delsin might be his so-called soul mate, and he simply couldn’t take it anymore. When he heard that thud of the door, he had realized something: he was in too deep. He was in too deep, he had gotten too attached, and now he was terrified for an entirely different reason: he had no idea if Delsin was going to come back. He had no idea if things between them would ever be okay again, and he had no idea if he would ever see him again. Regret twisted at Desmond’s stomach—he should have lied, he should have lied, he should have lied—and it took all he had left in him to stand up and numbly collect the plates on the table, calzones cold and untouched. 

Automatically, Desmond found himself stuffing the calzones into a freezer bag and shoving them into the fridge, before dumping the plates in the sink. He didn’t know what to do anymore; he didn’t know how to proceed. The fragile world he had been living in had finally shattered, leaving him cut and bloodied in the process. If he’d been able to feel anything other than a curious numbness, he might have been angry. 

Restless, as there was nothing left to do in the kitchen, Desmond quietly made his way back into the living room, gaze scanning the room in an attempt to find something to occupy his mind. Unlike Delsin, he couldn’t leave the apartment in this sort of mood—if he picked a fight with the wrong guy, he’d die. Fingers curling and uncurling in his agitation, Desmond resorted to moodily throwing himself down onto the couch, wordlessly grabbing the remote and flipping through the few channels they got. Not paying for cable meant you had to mooch of whatever neighbor wasn’t paying attention to where their cables went, which meant that it was never certain if there would be something to watch. For the first time tonight, though, it seemed something was going right: the person they were mooching off of hadn’t noticed, and the reception was crystal clear. 

It wasn’t something he could be excited about, though. Once again, he had torn himself away from monochrome and submerged himself into a world of bright, exciting colors; to go back to the familiar grays was like a punch in the gut. Sinking down into the couch, Desmond crossed his arms against his chest and allowed his eyes to fall shut, letting the soft noises of whatever was playing (he hadn’t cared enough to find something worth watching) wash over him, dragging him into the darkness he had been trying so hard to swim in. There was no point in being awake right now; until there was something he could do about this situation, he was going to sleep. 

He wasn’t certain how much time had passed before a sharp knock to the door woke him up. Blearily, Desmond sat up against the couch, left hand quickly rubbing against his eyes as he attempted to focus them again. For a moment, he was quiet, uncertain if he actually wanted to answer the door or not. The occasional visitors who came around here (at least the one’s he’d met) had never knocked before, and it wasn’t as if Delsin would knock on the door of his own apartment. 

The knock came again, a sharp noise against the soft murmur of noise in the apartment. Staring at the door, Desmond slowly got to his feet, a quiet sigh escaping him as he prepared to make what would most likely be another bad choice: he was going to answer the door. Tonight had already been a night of mistakes, what was one more to finish it off? Maybe it was just the neighbor wanting their cable back, or maybe it was Vidic here to collect him personally. There was only one way to find out. Scoffing quietly—that was shit logic, and he recognized it—Desmond reached out and curled his fingers around the worn handle, and pulled the door open, body tense and prepared for the worst. 

Whatever he had been expecting, it certainly hadn’t been this. Rather than opening the door to see an irate neighbor or smiling Vidic, Desmond had opened the door to find Delsin standing on the porch. Caught off guard by the fact Delsin had actually knocked on the door, Desmond opened his mouth to ask if he had forgotten his keys when he left, before he fully registered what Delsin was holding in his hands: flowers. 

Or at least, what had once been flowers. A majority of them had been slightly crushed, and some were missing their petals, near-empty heads swaying sadly in the slight breeze. They were hardly the best looking flowers, but as they were suddenly thrust in his direction, Desmond found he couldn’t help the slight stutter of his heart anyway. 

“I swear, they didn’t look like this earlier,” Delsin mumbled, heat crossing his cheeks as he stubbornly stared at the flowers, “I got kind of—uh—caught up in some DUP shit. Anyway, yeah, here.” He could feel the heat on his cheeks steadily spreading across his face and down his neck as he awkwardly presented the flowers to Desmond, and in that moment, he was incredibly grateful for the fact that Desmond couldn’t always see in color. And for the fact that with his tan complexion, it was incredibly hard to see when he was flushed. 

When he had left the apartment, he hadn’t known what to do. There had been too much information flying at him at once, too much for him to take in. It had only been once he had gotten away from the situation, once he’d gotten a chance to think about everything that had happened that he realized something: he didn’t want to lose Desmond. That didn’t mean he really believed in the whole soul mate theory, but he wasn’t about to act like everything that had happened tonight hadn’t happened. What had he said to Desmond, right before everything? Life wasn’t worth living if you weren’t willing to take a few risks? 

His advice was useless if he wasn’t willing to follow it himself. So here he was, slightly crushed flowers in hand, desperately attempting to work up the courage to ask Desmond one last question. Biting at his lower lip, Delsin gave a short (nervous) laugh as he shifted his weight from foot to foot. He’d never had this much trouble with words before—it was embarrassing. 

Reaching out, Desmond accepted the offered flowers, a smile curving his lips as he curiously studied Delsin, quietly amused by the sudden change in Delsin’s demeanor. “I—thank you?” he managed, entirely uncertain as to how he was supposed to respond to suddenly getting flowers. “Are you okay? You kind of look like you swallowed a bee, or something like that,” Desmond questioned, a soft scoff of amusement escaping him before he could bite it back. 

“I was just wondering if you wanted to go out on a date with me,” Delsin finally managed, shooting Desmond a cocky grin, as though he couldn’t feel his heart desperately thudding against his ribs. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as he waited for Desmond’s response, until each second felt like an eternity. 

Maybe the question had been obvious, considering Delsin had just given him flowers. However, Desmond hadn’t been expecting it, and as the words fell from Delsin’s lips, found he couldn’t do much more than just stare in shock at Delsin, dark eyes widening as he struggled to comprehend what he had just been asked. Every possible response seemed to die on his lips, perhaps suffocated by the sudden way his breath caught and his heart twisted, before a bubble of laughter abruptly escaped him. The sound was a relieved one, light and almost cheery as he nodded his head in response to the question, grip tightening on the flowers he’d accepted moments before. 

“Yeah,” Desmond breathed as his laughter subsided, “yeah, I want to go on a date with you.”

Eyes widening, a breathless laugh escaped Delsin as he openly grinned at Desmond, dark eyes alight with absolute delight. While he hadn’t expected any other answer, he still found himself relieved by the positive response, and his heart was thudding against his ribs for an entirely different reason now. “Of course you do, I’m one of the most wanted men in this city,” Delsin joked, unable to pull off the “most wanted” man line due to the fact that he was pretty sure Desmond was currently being hunted just as much as he was right now. 

Setting the flowers down on the table beside the door, Desmond carefully stepped out onto the porch. In a moment of boldness, he reached out and swiftly took Delsin’s hand, sudden warmth and color once again flooding his world, easing the ache that had previously been eating at his chest. He wasn’t certain how this would end, and truth be told, he didn’t want to know. For once, he just wanted to live in the moment. For once, he just wanted to be happy. 

“Are you blushing?” Desmond teased as he quietly tangled his scarred fingers with Delsin’s, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. 

“Shut up!” Delsin sputtered as he quietly tangled his fingers with Desmond’s, before he quickly squeezed back.

The future was uncertain, and the past had already been written. Right now, though, none of that mattered. All that mattered was the warmth that had suddenly curled around the both of them, and the soft laughter that seemed to come so easily. 

For the moment, they were happy.


	5. #DCDCDC

He had never expected to find the sound of snoring soothing. Yet, as he lay awake (still groggy, as he’d just woken up a few moments prior), he couldn’t deny that that was exactly what the soft snores were: soothing. Maybe it was because they were so soft that he found them relaxing—rather than grating against his nerves, it instead calmed them, the soft noise providing a constant reminder that he was safe here, that he was protected here, and that, even if it was just for a moment, he could relax here.

He’d never felt _safe_ before.

As he stared up at the ceiling, noting the odd little doodles here and there with a quiet amusement, Desmond couldn’t help but marvel over how fast his life had changed. One moment, he’d been nothing more than a bartender (who was technically supposed to be dead) working to keep his previous life from catching up with him, all while attempting to make ends meet. The next, he’d been thrown back into the war he’d tried so hard to escape from, and he’d killed the innocent façade he’d so carefully tried to construct and keep. He’d been thrown back into the fray, only this time, he’d willingly joined the fight. And somewhere along the way, he’d managed to find the person who could quite possibly be his soul mate—provided he agreed to actually believing in that story—and that was something he still didn’t quite know how to deal with, considering that Delsin had seen in color before he’d ever met him. He would be lying if he said that thought didn’t scare him, honestly, but that was something he tried not to dwell on. What was the old saying—don’t count your eggs before they’re hatched? Or something ridiculous like that?

Stretching, Desmond gave a soft grunt as he found himself impossibly tangled with Delsin, wrapped up in a lazy embrace of arms and legs.  At some point in the night, Delsin had sprawled himself across him, slightly pinning him against the bed, as if he were attempting to shield him from something. If it weren’t so endearing, he might have complained—but Delsin was warm, and he enjoyed the comfort of having Delsin pressed against him too much to really mind. It was a luxury he hadn’t had a chance to experience before, the warmth of someone pressed up against him, and for once in his life he was allowing himself to be greedy about something.

Hopelessly tangled with the conduit, Desmond found his attention slowly drifting across Delsin’s face, a softer sort of smile subtly curling his lips as he quietly admired the other. It was something he could only do in the few moments where Delsin wasn’t moving, when the world stood still long enough for them to pretend that they were just an ordinary couple and the war surrounding them wasn’t steadily getting worse. It was something he could only do when the voices, which were echoing louder and louder with each passing day, quieted. His life had never been one of peace and comfort, but the few moments he would label as such all included Delsin. And though he would never voice it, he was grateful for that. Grateful that, while he’d been pulled back into a war he had once fought so hard to escape, he’d found a few moments of peace; it was what he’d spent his whole life searching for, and something he was going to hold onto, even though his fingers were broken and his knuckles were bloodied.

Once again, Desmond’s attention turned to the ceiling, a lazy sort of contentment settling over him as he allowed himself to be pulled back into the soft sound of Delsin’s snores, as he allowed Delsin’s warmth to sink into his bones, warmer than any blanket. It was so easy to forget the real world here. It was so easy to pretend that this was how it had always been, and that everything else had been some sort of fucked up dream. Only, this was no fucked up dream, and it only took one glance at his arm to remember that. 

He had stopped wearing bandages around the house. Not because he was comfortable with his arm—how could he be comfortable with the fact the blackness was steadily creeping up his body, with the fact that the circuitry pattern was starting to glow brighter and pulse faintly?—but because the marks had stretched too far to be contained with bandages. When he wore long sleeves, he could pretend it wasn’t there, he could pretend that he didn’t feel his heart jolt against his ribs and fear chill his veins every time he looked in the mirror to see the spread of the disease (as he didn’t know what else he could call it) across his body. Sleeping in long sleeves around Delsin was the fastest way to overheat, though, and he wasn’t about to go back to sleeping on the couch. Not after he’d been spoiled by the presence of another, by the fact that he just needed to roll over to be able to bury his face against the conduit and feel an immediate sense of relief.

Another soft snore caught Desmond’s attention, disrupting his previous train of thought, and he couldn’t help but smile, a soft chuckle bubbling up from his chest. His life had been a fucked up situation from the very beginning, but in these few moments, he found he couldn’t be too upset. Gently, Desmond brushed Delsin’s hair back from his face, before shifting against the bed. It was early still, maybe he would make some breakfast. If he continued to lounge here, he was just going to embarrass himself with his thoughts.

 “Nhmb, it’s not time to get up yet,” Delsin muttered groggily, having been stirred awake by Desmond’s shift against the bed. Blearily, he reached out and wrapped his arms around the other, tiredly tightening them around the other and pressing his face against his chest with another sleepy noise of protest. “Go back to bed,” he sleepily slurred, voice muffled against Desmond’s chest, “’m comfortable and it’s fucking early.”

Whatever motivation Desmond had had previously to get up and make breakfast abruptly disappeared as he felt Delsin’s arms wrap around him, as he felt the conduit bury his face into his chest and sigh against his bare skin. He nearly shivered at the sensation, not because it was unpleasant, but because he still was not used to things like this. He wasn’t used to being wrapped up in lazy embraces, to being held tightly and told to stay. Too much of his life had been spent inside the Animus; more often than not, he had been told to get up and get to work, not to stay and relax. To be wanted for a reason other than his bloodlines was still new to him, and he doubted he would ever get used to it.

 “I didn’t think you were awake,” Desmond murmured as he lazily buried his face into Delsin’s hair, “or are you still asleep?”

“Nmh. ‘s fucking early, Desmond. Go back to sleep,” Delsin grumbled, though his words were barely audible, “stay here for a little while longer, you’re comfortable.” Before Desmond had moved in, he’d needed a new pillow. His old had been flat and lumpy, something he’d picked up for cheap. He didn’t need a new one anymore, though—Desmond made for an excellent pillow.  Desmond could probably use a new pillow though, considering he’d been forced to use the lumpy old one. Oops.

There was something soothing about listening to the steady beat of Desmond’s heart. It was something steady, constant—a reassurance that someone was there, that in these few moments, everything was okay. He could forget everything that was going on during these mornings. He could forget the people he had gotten hurt back home, and he could forget the fact that the weight of so many lives rested on his shoulders (which weren’t as strong as he wanted people to believe, and often shook and threatened to break when it all got to be too much for him—he was only a kid) if only for a few stolen moments.

With Desmond, he found something he’d (unknowingly) spent his whole life searching for: peace. And that simultaneously scared him half to death, and exhilarated him.

“Grump grump grump,” Desmond teased, “you’re definitely not a morning person.” His voice was little more than a soft murmur, nearly drowned out by the sound of rain hitting against the roof. Despite his words, he made no attempt to actually untangle himself from Delsin, instead opting to steal a few more moments of warmth.

“You’re a freak for being a morning person,” Delsin mumbled, “don’t act like I’m the weird one here.”

With a shake of his head, Desmond allowed his fingers to tangle in Delsin’s hair, before his hands slid down the conduit’s bare back, absent mindedly rubbing small circles against his shoulders. His early mornings were not born out of the fact he was a morning person, but out of habit. He’d spent too many years being forced awake at the crack of dawn for Assassin work to ditch the habit, even when he desperately wanted to sleep in and enjoy the moment; he longed for the ability to sleep in. That was something better left unvoiced, though.

“Pretty sure between the two of us, you _are_ the weird one,” Desmond breathed, “and all things considered, you make me seem almost normal. Congrats about that, I didn’t think that was possible until I met you.”

“Happy to be of service,” Delsin snorted, “you should really remember to thank me for that, though. I’m feeling kind of underappreciated for doing such a thing.” Warmth curled around his words, lightening his tone into something that almost seemed to dance in the soft atmosphere. “I’ll take my payment in the form of kisses, and you’re welcome to start paying any time you want.”

Before he could stop himself, Desmond laughed. The sound surprised him, not because he was amused by Delsin’s antics (because that was something that happened frequently) but rather because of how _genuine_ the sound was. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he had genuinely laughed—or the last time he had been genuinely happy, now that he thought about it.

“I think you’re just getting needy,” Desmond scoffed, playfully squirming under Delsin’s embrace, “I don’t think I owe you anything. You’re going to have to take me to collections if you want to get anything from me.”

Tightening his arms around Desmond, Delsin gave a bark of laughter, pulling back in an attempt to drag Desmond further into the bed with him, “Fine! We’ll go to collections, and you’re going to pay big time! I was going to be nice and let you just pay me whenever you wanted, but it looks like we’re going to have to do this the hard way!”

With a noise of protest to the arms tightening around him, Desmond gave another laugh and began to struggle against Delsin’s grip, grabbing the edge of the bed and attempting to drag both himself and Delsin off.

“Bring it, kid! I’ll take you to court and sue you for suing me,” Desmond joked, though his laughter was quick to turn to a noise of protest when he actually broke free of Delsin’s grip and tumbled onto the (very cold) floor, a sharp noise of surprise escaping him as goose bumps abruptly broke out across his skin. It was hard to tell which was colder: the floor, or the fact that as soon as he lost contact with Delsin, his world was forced back into varying shades of gray instead of the vibrant color he had become greedy for.

“Asshole,” Desmond groaned as he lay against the floor, the energy to move having left him the second he’d fallen.

“Looks like you’ve fallen for me,” Delsin mused as he lazily peered over the side of the bed, blatant amusement in his expression, “how sweet.”

“Not for you, because of you,” Desmond scoffed, slowing pushing himself back up into a sitting position, “thanks. I appreciate it. Not like the cold floor is comforting or anything.” A mock-glare was shot at Delsin as Desmond crossed his arms against his chest, jaw set in playfully stubborn manner.

“If you want to start making payments, you’re welcome to come back to the bed,” Delsin crooned, “otherwise, you’re going to have to get used to sleeping on the floor. You should enjoy it; it’s as cold as your heart.”

“What an interesting way to kick me when I’m down,” Desmond observed, struggling to bite back a grin, “good thing I’m too cold hearted to care, right?”

“—wait, wait, I think I might have been wrong,” Delsin suddenly sputtered, abruptly reaching out in an attempt to snag Desmond’s arm, soft laughter bubbling up from him despite his attempts to be serious, “come back here, I think I was wrong and you should demonstrate just how wrong I was—"

Quickly, Desmond scooted out of Delsin’s arm reach, shaking his head at the other. “It’s not going to be that easy to win over this cold heart,” Desmond dramatically scolded, pressing a hand against his chest. It was only when he saw Delsin’s gaze linger on his hand that he realized he had used his marked hand. Instantly, Desmond felt his light mood shift, and a sort of bitter smile crossed his expression as he looked down at himself.

“I’m pretty sure I can melt that icy heart of yours,” Delsin joked in a desperate attempt to save the mood. It was too late, though; just from Desmond’s expression, he could tell that the damage had already been done. Though he had tried time and time again to express that Desmond’s discoloration didn’t bother him (he wanted to know _what_ had caused it and if he needed to be worried about it, he wasn’t _bothered_ by it in the way Desmond seemed to assume) his words seemed to constantly fall on deaf ears. It was upsetting to him—he just wanted the other to be comfortable around him, and he didn’t know how to help him get there.

With a shake of his head, Desmond slowly pushed himself to his feet and grabbed one of the sweatshirts lazily piled on the floor, quickly tugging it on and zipping it up, previous good mood vanished. “What do you want for breakfast?” he questioned, not entirely willing to meet Delsin’s eyes, “I’m thinking just eggs and bacon or something simple.” Anxiously—as his arm was still on his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth—he fiddled with the zipper of the hoodie. Unconsciously, he’d picked up one of Delsin’s.

For a brief moment, Delsin took a moment to admire the image before him. There was something incredibly appealing about seeing Desmond clad only in his boxers, with one of his hoodies draped across him. Trying to ignore the sudden twist of his stomach—he was so weak for things like this, it was absurd—Delsin offered a shrug, sighing as he shifted so he was once again sprawled back against the bed, disappointed with the sudden mood shift.

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Delsin muttered. He didn’t blame Desmond for this sudden shift in mood, but rather himself; after all, he had been the one to point out which hand Desmond had used, albeit unconsciously. “Toss me my phone, would you?”

Snagging the phone off the top of the dresser, Desmond tossed it beside Delsin, before pausing. He could feel the other’s disappointment—something he could only blame himself for, considering he was the one with the stupid issue—and a soft sense of guilt was slowly starting to eat at him. There was no saving the mood at this point, but maybe he could do something to coax a smile from Delsin. Before he could talk himself out of it for some stupid reason, Desmond crossed the gap he had put between them. Gently, he reached out and allowed his fingers to brush down Delsin’s cheek (the sudden jolt of color never failed to surprise him) before he leant forward and briefly brushed his lips against Delsin’s. The kiss was soft and brief, but there was no denying that it was _warm._

“Consider it your first payment,” Desmond breathed as he pulled back from Delsin, a soft smile lingering on his expression before he quickly stepped out of reach, entirely aware that if he lingered for too long, Delsin would just pull him back into bed and destroy his attempts to be productive.

Caught off guard by the sudden kiss, and suddenly grateful that Desmond couldn’t see in color when he wasn’t touch him, Delsin gave a soft sputter of a noise and quickly pulled a blanket over his face, laughter echoing from beneath the sheets. Not many people could catch him off guard, but for whatever reason, Desmond seemed to be a natural at it, and he still wasn’t certain how to handle it.

Snickering, Desmond took the moment to quickly step out of the room, intending to flee before he gave into temptation and allowed himself to be pulled back under the covers, before he allowed himself to once again curl up with Delsin and waste the day away. Reality could only be ignored for so long, after all.

It was only once he heard Desmond step out of the room that Delsin pushed the covers off of his face, a quiet grin still blatant on his expression as he slowly sat up and shook his head. While he wasn’t certain if he believed in the soul mate theory that so many people claimed to be true, he was certain of one thing: he cared way too much for Desmond, and while that should have scared him, it excited him instead.

Reaching out, Delsin grabbed the phone beside him, brows arching as he took in the influx of messages on the screen. Most were from Fetch and Eugene, but one of them wasn’t. Suddenly, the warmth that had previously enveloped him disappeared, leaving him cold as he stared at one name in particular: Henry Daughtry.

Opening the fridge, a slight disappointment settled over Desmond as he realized that they were out of eggs; so much for making a hot breakfast. Instead, it seemed he was going to have to settle on disappointing toaster waffles, or cereal. As he heard the clatter that indicated Delsin was actually up, Desmond turned his head to ask Delsin about his preference for breakfast (and maybe steal a kiss, if he was quick enough) only to be cut off by the sound of the front door opening and slamming shut, echoing in the otherwise quiet apartment.

Startled by the fact that he hadn’t even gotten a goodbye—and quietly worried for the same reason—Desmond slowly closed his mouth, and a soft sigh slumped his shoulders as he quietly closed the refrigerator. Suddenly, he wasn’t hungry anymore. Mindlessly, Desmond made his way into the living room and threw himself down on the couch, trying to calm the sudden anxiety that had rooted itself deep within him.

He never knew when their last goodbyes would be. All he could do was hope that he’d be able to come home this evening, and that Delsin would already be there. All he could do was hope that tonight, they’d get to curl up and watch some sort of movie together, and once again pretend that they were just normal kids living an ordinary life.

All he could do was hope.

Hope wasn’t enough to ease the feeling of dread slowly eating at him, though. In a quiet desperation, Desmond reached over and snagged the laptop on the coffee table. Abstergo’s influence had been bigger than he had possibly imagined; not too long ago, he had reached out to a few contacts in the hopes of getting their input on the subject. It was a risky thing to do—especially considering he wasn’t even certain if they were alive or not anymore—but he had had no other options; taking on Abstergo on his own was nothing short of a suicide mission.

What he saw in his inbox was enough to make his blood freeze, fear suddenly constricting his lungs and stopping his heart.

 

_SENDER: Vidic, Warren._

_TITLE: Good Morning, Mr. Miles_

It had been sent only a few moments ago, before he had moodily thrown himself down on the couch. Breath catching in his throat, fear briefly paralyzed Desmond, his hand almost violently shaking as he fought the urge to throw the laptop off of his lap and into the nearest wall. For a moment, he considered ignoring the message. He considered pretending that he hadn’t seen it, because if he acknowledged it, then he would be forced to acknowledge the fact that Vidic knew he was alive. It was something he’d known was likely to happen, considering that he’d been seen by DUP agents and because it was likely some of those “contacts” were traitors, but it was something he had desperately been attempting to deny.

There was no denying it now.

Hand still shaking, Desmond slowly released the breath he’d been holding and double clicked on the email, fear consuming him. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and he could feel it pounding against his chest, threatening to shatter his ribs with each impact. Each breath he took seemed to take an eternity, and no matter how hard he struggled to breathe, he couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen to his lungs.

When he saw what was in the email, he wished he’d thrown the computer after all.

_Dear Mister Miles,_

_It’s good to see you alive and well. After you suddenly disappeared and all of our communications went silent, I had started to fear that you had died, and the Apple had gone with you. What a relief it was to learn that you were actually still alive! I hope this letter finds you in good health, as the last thing I would want is for you to be unwell, considering the amount of work that we have to do together._

_For your sake, I will skip the pleasantries. I’m certain you’re a busy man these days, seeing as you’re running with an interesting group. Were the Assassins not interesting enough for you? I shouldn’t have been surprised that you sided with the bio-terrorists. I am surprised that you’ve managed to evade my agents for so long, though. Consider me impressed, Mr. Miles. However, time is ticking, and I’m tired of playing these childish games with you. You will come to Abstergo, and you will bring me the Apple. And this time, there won’t be any tricks._

_Before you ask “why” you’re coming, consider the following: someone important to you left in quite a hurry this morning, didn’t they? In case that is too vague for you, allow me to elaborate: we have bio-terrorist Delsin Rowe, and if you want to see him alive again, you’re going to come down here with the Apple, and we’re going to do a little trade._

_You have until the end of today, Mister Miles. You won’t be bothered by any of my agents, so you’ll be free to come down here whenever you please. Until then, my agents and I are going to have a good time keeping Mr. Rowe company. I’ve always been curious about how fast bio-terrorists can heal, and what they can heal from. Feel free to take your time while I test this curiosity of mine._

_Yours,_

_Warren Vidic._

For a long time, Desmond simply stared at the screen before him, vision blurring and voices slamming against his skull as he desperately attempted to pull himself back together and calm the panic ripping him apart from the inside out. There was no doubt in his mind that this was a trap—Vidic had used the same tactic before, only he had captured his Dad at that time—but he didn’t care. There was a chance that Vidic had Delsin. That Vidic had somehow captured Delsin, and was holding him at Abstergo, testing a curiosity that had kept him awake at night in worry.

There was a chance that Vidic didn’t have Delsin, though. This could be some sort of huge bluff, a ploy to get him to Abstergo with cheap scare tactics. And despite the fact that Desmond _knew_ better—Vidic wouldn’t gamble for so much with cheap scare tactics—desperation was a funny thing, and he was incredibly desperate to believe that this was all some sort of gross joke.

With a shaking hand (he couldn’t stop shaking) Desmond closed the laptop in front of him and reached for his disposable phone. He dropped it once, and then twice, before he was finally able to flip it open and hit redial. The last number he had called had been Delsin; they had been making sure the phone was actually going to work. There was an unspoken agreement between them: only call if it was an emergency. Texting was fine any time, but actually calling was reserved only for the most extreme of situations.

Swallowing (his throat was dry, and each swallow seemed to tear against it) Desmond raised the phone to his ear, heartbeat still thundering against his ribs as he desperately willed Delsin to pick up, to laugh at him for being so foolish about this entire situation. If he could just hear Delsin’s voice, if he could just know that he was safe, then everything would be okay.

There was no answer. Again and again, Desmond hit redial, heart lurching as he listened to his phone attempt to connect with Delsin’s, only to fail time and time again. Dimly, Desmond was aware of the fact that his phone had fallen from his hand—he could hear it clatter against the ground—but he couldn’t move. His heart, which had been beating so loudly just moments before, seemed to stop, silence replacing the previous thunder. His breathing had slowed, each ragged breath catching and shaking, each exhale threatening to crack and break into something worse, if that was even possible.

Logically, Delsin not answering his phone didn’t mean that Abstergo had him. Desmond had seen him fight; it would take a hell of a lot to capture him, and he doubted that Vidic had that man power. Vidic wasn’t Delsin’s enemy, though—Augustine was. And he had absolutely no idea what she was capable of. So, no, he didn’t know for certain that Abstergo had Delsin. However, there was a chance that they might.

And as long as that chance existed, he had to go. There was a chance that they had Delsin, and that wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. Where he was perfectly fine with gambling with his own life, the second someone else became involved, it stopped being a game. Fingers curling, Desmond was faintly aware of the blood dripping down his palms from where his nails had broken skin. He was playing right into Vidic’s trap, and he knew it, but there was nothing else he could do. He was about to willingly walk back into Abstergo, he was about to willingly walk back into the place that had already nearly killed him once, because they had taken someone else important to him.

Unlike last time, he didn’t have a failsafe this time. There was no safety net to catch him anymore, no team to back him up if things went wrong. He couldn’t surprise Vidic this time; he’d played all his tricks the last time he had walked into Abstergo. He had nothing he could use against them, but that wasn’t going to stop him. Vidic wouldn’t kill him until he had his hands on the Apple; he was too valuable to Abstergo to die. The worst they could do was use him as a pawn, and strap him back into the Animus and force him back into the life he had tried so hard to escape.

It was a price he was willing to pay. Numbly, Desmond got to his feet. Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath and slowly closed his eyes. He had always known that he was living on borrowed time; by getting involved with Delsin, he had signed off any chance of living a normal life. Did he regret it? Did he regret getting involved with Delsin, did he regret once again joining the war he’d struggled so hard to leave?

No.

He couldn’t regret something that had made him happy. Stepping across the living room, Desmond took a moment to study his surroundings, gaze lifelessly traveling all around the room. What had once been a fairly barren, barely lived in space had turned into something that he could only call a home. Everywhere he looked, he was faced with some sort of memory, be it the memory of some stupid game night or a place where they had sat and spoken in hushed whispers about things they were afraid to say in the daylight.

Everywhere he looked, he had a memory. This place had been more of a home to him than anywhere else. It was a shitty apartment in an area of Seattle that, if you were out at the wrong time of night, the chances of you getting stabbed were high, but it had been home. Delsin had made it a home. If nothing else, he was grateful for that. Head bowing, Desmond gave a quiet, tired sigh. There was no use in procrastinating any longer; he had gotten all he would from here. It was time for him to walk back to Abstergo, it was time for him to confront the man who had started his nightmare of a life all that time ago, and allow him to steal his second life, as long as it meant keeping Delsin safe.

He loved him.

Fingers hesitated, before they reached for the coat that was hanging off the side of the armchair. It was the one he had been wearing the night he’d been attacked by the DUP agent, the night he had learned about Delsin being a conduit. He had assumed that it had been tattered and torn beyond repair, and had planned to throw it away. Only, he had left it here that night on accident, and when he had come back, it’d been gone. He’d assumed that Delsin had thrown it out, at least, he had until Delsin had presented it to him with a flushed face and sheepish grin. The jacket was hardly perfect, as it was held together with patches more than anything else, but Desmond had loved it.

That hadn’t been when he’d realized, though. No, that had been some time during the night, when they’d laid awake talking about everything and nothing. When their laughter had been due to a lack of sleep rather than something being actually funny, and when he had realized that the thing he’d been searching for so long for was right in front of him. He had fallen in love with Delsin when Delsin had become his home, but he hadn’t been able to tell him.

If he had any regrets, it was that he hadn’t told Delsin before now.

Shrugging on the jacket, Desmond quickly zipped it up and headed out the door, gently shutting it and locking it behind him. There was still the chance that Delsin hadn’t been captured; he didn’t want to risk someone coming in and looting their stuff because he’d failed to lock the door. Briefly, Desmond considered leaving a note, before he decided against it. The last thing he wanted was for Vidic to get his hands on Delsin if he didn’t already have him. This was not Delsin’s battle to fight; he was not going to involve him any farther than he already had.

Walking down the steps, Desmond vaguely recalled the first time he had walked up them. He had compared them to his own steps, amused by the fact that they had seemed more dangerous than the ones he had to walk on. It seemed like that had been an eternity ago, as though he hadn’t met Delsin just a few months ago. His perception of time had always been skewed, though. Maybe it was better that he had only known Delsin for a few months. The less time he spent around someone, the better their life generally was, and this was a prime example of that.

The steps weren’t dangerous anymore; he walked down them without an instance, and stood in the parking lot. His motorcycle still sat in the parking lot, glistening in the rain. He wasn’t going to take it, though; he had left the keys upstairs on the coffee table. Turning, as it would probably take him less time to walk anyway, Desmond slowly pushed himself forward, each step heavy as he walked towards Abstergo.

DUP agents still crawled the streets, their numbers having only multiplied after the DUP had joined forces with Abstergo, but as Vidic had promised, they did not bother him. It was almost strange, being able to freely walk down the streets; he hadn’t been able to do this since he had first moved here, before everything had exploded. He had no doubt that they would have apprehended him if they could, though; on more than one occasion, he watched as someone jolted towards him, only to be yanked back by a superior officer. For a moment, he had considered attempting to provoke them; if he had had the time, he would have. With the risk of Delsin being hurt, though, he continued forward.

The doors to Abstergo (they had been quick to set up a branch in Seattle, something he noted with dry humor) loomed before him, and he did not hesitate to push them open, brazenly strolling into the main room. And while he had expected there to be a trap just inside the doors, he hadn’t been prepared for it.

All of a sudden, something was slammed into his back, sending him staggering. In the same moment, someone slammed a bar against the back of his knees, sending him tumbling down before he had a chance to regain his breath from the earlier attack. He didn’t have time to put up a fight before his wrists were bound and he was aggressively shoved into a chair, his mind still reeling as he attempted to recover from the sudden abuse.

“Mr. Miles, I’m glad you came,” Vidic sneered, a hand reaching out to forcibly yank Desmond’s chin up, meeting his eyes with a look of satisfaction, “I was starting to wonder if you were actually going to stay home. I was about to be very disappointed in you. My, you’re quite alive, aren’t you? Fantastic. We’ve been missing you here, Mr. Miles. Especially after what happened with Lucy.”

Quiet fury bubbled deep within Desmond; even if Vidic’s hand hadn’t been under his chin, forcing him to look up, he would have been staring at the other, daring him to loosen the ropes binding his wrists, if only for a moment.

“Let him go,” Desmond spat, venom rich in his words, “you have me, fulfill your side of the bargain.”

“Oh, I don’t have him. In fact, I don’t really care what happens to Mr. Rowe at this point. I just wanted to get my hands on you,” Vidic shrugged, laughing as he spoke, “which I must say, went over surprisingly well. I thought you’d know better than that, Mr. Miles. Now, I’m not interested in him, but one of my esteemed colleagues certainly is.”

“From the sounds of it, it seems like Mr. Rowe has spun you some sort of pity tale in an attempt to gain your favor,” a new voice spoke, “it’s good that we got you here. You see, Mr. Miles, bio terrorists are exactly that: terrorists. They’re going to do anything they can to get you to pity them, to try and get you to believe whatever stories they tell you. You absolutely cannot believe these stories, though. They’re nothing but a pity grab. Bio-terrorists are _dangerous_ Mister Miles, and it breaks my heart to see that you’ve fallen victim to their deception.”

He didn’t need to look at her to know who she was: Augustine. The very woman Delsin had told him in quiet, pained murmurs about. She was Augustine, the woman who had been willing to slaughter an entire tribe of people, simply because they wouldn’t give up one of their own.

“Hah, that’s a good joke,” Desmond breathed, lip curling as he raised his head to stare at Augustine, “you have to have a heart before it can be broken.”

Immediately, Desmond felt the shock that came with being harshly slapped across the face. With a cough, he turned his head and spit some blood to the side, a sharp laugh escaping him. Augustine didn’t scare him; the fact she was here told him that they didn’t have Delsin. And while he knew exactly what Augustine was capable of, as long as he knew that Delsin was okay, he wasn’t afraid. Rolling his shoulders, Desmond returned his attention to Augustine, taking a moment to look her up and down. All in all, there wasn’t much to see—she kind of reminded him of a cross between a turtle and a vulture. Baring his teeth at her in something that was far too aggressive to be a smile—his teeth were streaked red with blood, and the taste lingered in his mouth—Desmond raised a brow at her, usual amber eyes burning bright gold.

“Look, Augustine, you can spend all the time you want trying to lecture me about how _conduits_ are big, bad, and evil, but the only one that I’ve met that’s fallen into that category has been you. Last I checked, nobody else has run off and attempted to destroy a village of innocent people out of spite,” Desmond spat, “so you might as well save your breath. You’re not going to get anything from me.”

Turning her gaze towards Vidic, Augustine gave a sharp nod. And, had he had he been a smart man, he would have been at least the slightest bit worried about that nod. He had never been a smart man, though, and rather than fear, he felt a strange sense of peace as he regarded the interaction between Vidic and Augustine. They didn’t have Delsin. Delsin wasn’t in their hands, there was a chance that he was okay, and there was a chance that he was safe in the city. He’d probably be coming home soon, and while he’d be confused by the fact that Desmond wasn’t there, he’d still be safe. And that was all that mattered to him.

“Mister Miles, I have no doubt that you know exactly why I invited you here today,” Vidic said finally, stepping in front of Desmond’s line of sight, “I want the Apple. I know you have it, and it’s time that you finally let me have it. We can put this whole thing to rest, and you’ll be let go. I have no need for you once I get the Apple, and this whole ordeal can be over. You can go live a lazy, normal life, and not have to deal with any of this ever again.

Give me the Apple, Mister Miles, and everyone can go home in one piece.”

Yeah, like he hadn’t heard that one before. Vidic was about to be incredibly disappointed, wasn’t he? Amused by this—he was amused by a lot of things right now—Desmond gave a nonchalant shrug, as if they were talking about the weather and not whether or not he’d get to go home at the end of the day.

“That’s the problem, Vidic, I don’t have the Apple anymore. When I woke up after nearly dying, the darn thing was just gone! The Assassins probably have it, and you’re wasting your time keeping me hostage. I don’t have a role to play in this war anymore; go find yourself a new pawn.”

Once again, Desmond felt the sharp sting of someone’s fist colliding with his face. This time, it was enough to get him to rock back in his chair. He’d been through worse, though, and the marked skin on his arm proved it. A little punch was hardly a problem; already, he could feel the skin reconstructing and healing itself, fixing whatever damage the punch had tried to do.

“Where is the Apple, Mister Miles?” VIdic snarled, desperation in his voice. He was a man at the end of his rope, and capturing Desmond Miles had been his last hope to tracking down the Apple. Simply put, he couldn’t believe that it was gone. If it was gone, then all his work would be for nothing. He would have to go back to square one, and finding someone with the correct DNA sequence was no small task. “I know you have it. Give me the Apple, Mister Miles. Or would you rather we rummage through your memories? See if there are any other artifacts your ancestors buried?”

Normally, the threat of being thrown back into the Animus would have scared him. Yet, as he stared at Vidic—as he looked at the way the vein pulsed in Vidic’s forehead, as he looked at the way Vidic seemed so close to snapping—Desmond found he couldn’t help but smile. There was something just absurd in the fact that he was back in this situation, and part of him wanted to laugh over it. Another part of him was convinced that this was nothing more than a nightmare, and that when he woke up, he’d be able to press his face against Delsin’s chest and relax. He knew this was no nightmare, though, just as he knew that he wasn’t going to come out of this alive.

Once again, he was a pawn. Augustine wanted to use him to lure Delsin here—though why she wouldn’t go with Reggie first, he wasn’t certain—and Vidic had wanted to use him to get his hands on the Apple. Of course they would team up. He had been right in assuming that Delsin wouldn’t be easy to capture. He had been right in assuming that this had been a trap that was based on the gamble of him not being willing to even potentially leave someone in the hands of Vidic. He had been right—and he was glad for it.

“Are you done yet, Vidic? I told you, I don’t have the Apple. You’re just wasting our time with this, and believe it or not, I do have better things to do,” Desmond scoffed.

“I don’t believe that you would just walk in here without a plan!” Vidic shouted, “I don’t believe that you would walk in here without planning on walking back out! The only trick you could possibly use against me would be the Apple, so give it up!”

“Warren,” Augustine said, “There’s an easier way to do this. Let’s get Rowe in here. If Mister Miles is as attached as he seems to be—if he was really willing to come here without some sort of trump card—then Rowe clearly must mean a lot to him. I’m certain that Miles here means a lot to Rowe, I have no doubt that he’ll come in an attempt to save him, especially after I left his brother at the bottom of the river. He’s all Rowe has left now. Not only will you get what you want, but I’ll finally get a chance to put Rowe where he belongs: Curdan Kay.”

The calm that had previously enveloped Desmond shattered. All this time, he had been soothed by the idea that Delsin was safe, that even though they had him, they weren’t going to get their hands on Delsin. And, had Augustine not referenced the fact she’d left Reggie at the bottom of the river, he would have been willing to bet that everything would have been okay, that Delsin might actually think before coming to his rescue. If what Augustine had said was true, though, there would be no stopping Delsin if he decided to come and attempt to rescue him.

He had come here with an ace in the hole. However, he hadn’t wanted to use it. If Delsin came here though, he would have no choice; he had to keep him safe. There was no price too steep to pay as long as it meant keeping Delsin safe. Panic gripped Desmond’s throat as he regarded Augustine and Vidic, the sneer still lingering on his expression (as he couldn’t show them how afraid he really was.)

“You bring up a good idea, Augustine. Clearly, attempting to reason with him isn’t going to get either of us anywhere. We were being so nice to him, too. I hate when these things turn nasty,” Vidic sighed as he crossed his arms across his chest, stepping back so he was standing beside Augustine, a pleasant smile on his face. “Very well, bring Mister Rowe in. I’m sure he’s dying to know where Mister Miles is, anyway. It’d be rude to keep this from him, wouldn’t it?” Once again, Vidic gave a nod. This time, it was directed at the DUP agents surrounding Desmond.

He had only a moment to prepare himself before he felt the first impact. Breath catching, Desmond gave a harsh cough; from the corner of his eye, he could see Augustine recording, a delighted sort of smile on her face. It clicked then what they were planning to do to lure Delsin in.

“Don’t get involved, Delsin!” Desmond snapped, before the breath was forced out of his lungs. “Don’t fall for the same thing I did! Don’t come. Do you hear me? Don’t come, I don’t need you here!” Each word was agony, each word ripping apart his lungs as he desperately fought for breath, as he desperately fought to stay conscious. He knew that he was fighting for a lost cause. He knew that Delsin wasn’t going to listen to him, just as he knew that Delsin was going to show up here. And it was all going to be his fault. Delsin hadn’t been here originally, but he would be—all because he’d fallen for a trap, all because he had brought him here.

Whatever happened next, it was going to be his fault.

 

 

It was only when he heard the persistent ding of missed messages that Delsin realized his phone had gone off.   

Hank had betrayed them. Hank had dragged them into a situation that they would have never been able to win. He had vouched for Hank, he had thought he could trust him, despite Reggie’s claims that they couldn’t. Reggie had gone along with him, because he had asked him to, and now Reggie had paid the price for his mistake.

Reggie had been innocent of all of this. Reggie had never asked for any of this, and now he was gone, all because of him. He had watched him die, and he hadn’t been able to save him. And now there was nothing he could do to fix this. No matter what he did, Reggie wasn’t going to come back. And it was all because he’d dragged him into a mess he had no reason to be in, just as he always had.

A broken laugh escaped Delsin as he threw his head back. He wasn’t okay. No, he was far from okay, but he couldn’t break down yet. Not when Augustine was still out there, not when Hank still needed to pay for what he had caused. With a shaking hand, Delsin pulled his phone from his pocket and finally unlocked it. He would break down later; right now he had something he needed to do. He was going to finish what they had started: he was going to get Augustine.

Alarm mingled with Delsin’s cascading emotions as he noticed the plethora of missed calls from Desmond: one, two, three—seven missed calls, all from earlier this morning. It was the single text message that he had received that froze his blood in its veins though.

_FROM: RESTRICTED NUMBER_

_TEXT: Are you ready to give up yet? Come to Abstergo, and we can finally put an end to these shenanigans._

 

Dread settled itself further within Delsin until it seemed to reach the very marrow of his bones. Desmond had been the one who had talked about Abstergo and the DUP joining forces. Desmond had been the one who said he’d pissed off Abstergo before he’d come to Seattle. Augustine—as he had no doubt that that was who this was from—had no reason to meet at Abstergo, unless Desmond was there. Otherwise, she would have picked a slightly more public place, if only to seem like a hero for subduing a “bioterrorist.”

Seven missed calls.

Hand shaking, Delsin desperately hit the redial button and brought his phone to his ear, _praying_ that Desmond would answer, praying that he’d hear that familiar voice telling him that it was okay, and that he was okay.

There was no answer, though. Again and again, Delsin pressed the redial button, throat constricting as he attempted to pull himself together. He had just lost Reggie, and now he might lose Desmond. Everyone he was supposed to protect, everyone he cared for, was getting hurt, and it was all because of him.

Maybe he really was a monster.

 

_TEXT MESSAGE_

_FROM: RESTRICTED NUMBER_

_VIDEO ATTACHMENT_

_TEXT: I would hurry, Rowe._

He was scared to open the attachment. His fear didn’t stop him, though. Numbly, Delsin watched as his worst fears were confirmed: Augustine (as well as Abstergo) had Desmond. He was aware of the fact that Desmond had said something in the video, but all he saw was each blow against Desmond, all he heard was the ragged noises Desmond made as he attempted to breathe enough to speak again.

As the video cut out, Delsin could do little more than stare at his screen. Laughter suddenly sprung from him, the sound harsh and violent, and a grin stretched across his face as he gingerly tucked his phone back into his pockets.

Augustine had taken Reggie from him. She had hurt the people he considered his family. And now she was attempting to take the last person who mattered away from him. He was entirely aware that this was a trap, that she was luring him to Abstergo. That didn’t mean he cared, though; he wasn’t going to let her take Desmond from him. He wasn’t going to lose the one person left who could keep him grounded.

He had promised Betty he would find a way to make everything right. Now, he saw that that just wasn’t going to happen; he couldn’t atone for what had happened with Reggie. He couldn’t make up for the lives he had already cost. But he was damned well going to try. Slowly, Delsin got to his feet and brushed the cement off of his knees. If Augustine wanted him, then fine. He had come here to fight her, and he had nothing stopping him now.

First, though, he was going to get some more power.

 


	6. FCFCFC

He remembered dying.

He remembered the exact moment he touched the Orb, and he remembered the agony that had shot through him as every nerve in his body caught fire and burnt. His first instinct had been to pull away—oh, god, how he’d wanted to pull away—but he had never had the chance to. It had seemed easy: he would sacrifice his life for the good of the world, as all his life he had been told that the good of the many outweighed the good of the few. The second he had touched that Orb, though, he had realized just what he was giving up; it was only one life compared to the millions of lives that would have been taken if he hadn’t touched the Orb, but it had been _his_ life.

Just as he remembered dying, however, he remembered waking up. Slumped against the cold, rough stone floor, he had been entirely alone, neither Juno nor his team by his side. Why would they be, though? His job had been done, and just like the countless Assassins that had died on the job before him, he was to be forgotten in the face of the next danger. They had never been friends, just comrades. People forced to work together for a greater good; at least, that was what he told himself. It was easier to believe that than deal with the fact that he had been abandoned.

How he had wanted to be friends with them.

It had still hurt to wake up alone. He remembered being disorientated, confused and wondering if it had been some sort of dream. It was only when he looked down at his arm (he remembered reaching out to touch the Orb, but everything past that was a haze), and that was when he had realized that it had been no nightmare. When he had first woken up, he hadn’t been marked with the black that currently marred his skin. Instead, his arm had been severely burnt, charred bone sticking out from melted flesh. He had been able to count the bones in his fingers, but where it _should_ have hurt, he felt nothing. He _should_ have been in agony, and he _should_ have died—but instead, he felt nothing, and he was alive. There was no logical reason for him to have lived through that, but he was alive.

His name was Desmond Miles, and he had cheated death. Elation had filled him once he’d realized that; as confused as he was as to why he was alive, he saw an opportunity to become something he’d never been given a chance to become before: boring. He finally had a chance to be boring, to be just another nobody, another nameless face in the crowd. In that moment, he had made a promise to himself. He had promised that he wouldn’t waste this chance, and that he would live this life the way he had always wanted to live. He had promised that this time, he’d be the one making the choices, instead of allowing himself to get wrapped up in a war he’d never fully understood.

He never broke that promise.

* * *

Head hanging, Desmond struggled to breathe as the DUP agents finally backed off, body bruised and aching, blood dripping down his face and onto his lap as he tried to stay above the waves of black threatening to drag him under. Each breath was an agony, his cracked ribs protesting at the slightest jostle, and the inside of his mouth seemed to permanently taste of blood. Despite his agony, he did not cry out; he would not give them that satisfaction. 

Augustine must have finished “punishing” him for mouthing off to her—that was the only reason he could come up with as to why the DUP agents had suddenly backed off. It wasn’t like Vidic had any control over them, no matter how desperately he wanted to believe otherwise. Scarred and split lips slowly curved into a smile, though the gesture was void of any genuine amusement, as Desmond raised his head and took a moment to simply study Vidic, head tilting at the obvious discomfort in his body language. Without breaking eye contact (fierce gold still replaced previous amber) Desmond turned and spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, before he offered Vidic a shrug.

“What’s the matter, Vidic?” he questioned, an unidentifiable accent twisting his tone and marring his words, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It seems that I underestimated the amount of abuse you can take, Mister Miles. I hope you’ll have the same endurance when it comes to Animus,” Vidic managed, though he found himself taking a step back as he met those golden eyes, unease blatant in the gesture. By all means, Desmond shouldn’t have been able to withstand that beating; he had counted on him passing out, so he could bring him back to the Animus and see where he had stashed the Apple.

“I don’t have the Apple anymore, Vidic. It was destroyed,” Desmond stated, “and no matter how hard you try, you’re not going to find it. It doesn’t exist. You’ve been chasing a glitch this entire time, an error in the coding—don’t you get it? You’ve been chasing a stray.” Laughter bubbled up from him now, but the sound was not a pleasant one. It was rough, grating like the hoarse hack of a smoker, and specks of blood coated Desmond’s breathe the entire time, splattering against Vidic’s previously pristine lab coat, “You’re not going to listen to me though, are you? I can see it in your eyes. Even if I really did have the Apple, the only way this would ever truly end would be with one of us dying. I’ve already died once, Vidic. I have nothing left to lose.”

That wasn’t exactly true. As soon as he uttered those words, a face came to mind: Delsin. When he had first met Delsin in the bar, he had been immediately interested in him. He’d assumed he’d just been drawn in by the other’s slight charm, and though he loathed admitting it, his stubborn tendencies, but he understood now that that hadn’t been the whole reason for his interest. No, that had had to do with the fact that they were soul-mates. The moment their fingers had touched, his world had changed—literally and figuratively.

He had had to die to find his soul mate, but he didn’t regret it.

He didn’t regret it because, just like with how he didn’t regret getting involved with this war, it had been _his_ choice to get involved. He had been the one to go to Delsin’s apartment with the license, and he had been the one to continue going back there. It had been under the premise that since they were fighting the same war, they might as well live together, but it had never been just that. As much as he had willed it to be, and as much as he had pretended it was, it had never been just that.

Whether or not he and Delsin were truly soul-mates (or rather, whether or not soul-mates actually existed) wasn’t important to him anymore. What was important was the fact that he loved him, and that for the first time, it seemed like Delsin was actually listening to him. The fact he hadn’t come slamming through the doors yet had revived his hope that everything would work out okay after all, and it was sending him on a high. 

“Are you really willing to gamble with your life, Vidic?” Desmond questioned in a voice that was dangerously soft. He was not bluffing; Vidic had made a threat against someone important to him, and he was tired of the people he cared about being put in danger simply because of their association with him. It was time to eliminate a threat, if not for himself, then for the people he cared about.  “I wish I could say I was surprised, but seeing as I was willing to die for my cause, it makes sense that you’d be willing to do the same for yours.”

Before Vidic could answer Desmond’s question—if he even had an answer—a commotion happened. And in that moment, the confidence Desmond had felt slowly building within him abruptly vanished, and was instantly replaced with the bitter taste of _fear_.

Delsin had shown up.

It was like his worst nightmare was coming true. Heart lurching in his throat, Desmond jerked his attention toward the door, a cry rising in his throat. He wanted desperately to cry out, to beg Delsin to turn around and leave before things go out of hand, but the words seemed to stick in his throat. For a brief moment, their eyes met from across the room (he was almost afraid, as the look in Delsin’s eyes could only be described as _feral_ ) and he could see a reflection of his own _desperation_ in Delsin’s expression.

 Suddenly, Desmond realized something: he could see the color of Delsin’s eyes.

Previous grays had bled away, instead replaced with a vibrant color he’d come to expect whenever he’d touched Delsin. Only, they weren’t touching right now. They weren’t lazily tangled together, they weren’t idly twining fingers together as they strolled around the quieter parts of the city—they weren’t touching, but he could see in perfect color. There was only one explanation for such an occurrence, and as soon as Desmond realized what it was, he felt the color drain from his face.

Delsin loved him.

And that was why he knew this wasn’t going to end well. That was why he knew that—no matter how he begged, no matter how he pleaded—Delsin wasn’t going to leave without him. Delsin was going to get hurt, and it was going to be his fault.

Panic surged through Desmond as he fought against the ropes binding him, heedless of the fact they were cutting into his wrists, chest heaving as he frantically scrambled to do _something_ , to change the story he saw unfolding in front of him before it was too late. Before he could open his mouth—what would he even say? It wasn’t like Delsin would listen to him right now—someone else cut in.

“Good of you to finally join us, Rowe,” Augustine spoke, “I was starting to think you’d just headed home. Are you ready to finally come with me? We can put this whole thing to rest. What else are you willing to lose, Rowe? Are you really ready to have another life wasted because of your tenacity?”

Delsin’s attention, which had previously been on Desmond, abruptly snapped to Augustine, his dark eyes narrowing in an unconcealed hatred, and his lips curling into a snarl. He was like a dog that had been beaten one too many times and had finally snapped, ready to attack the first thing he labeled as dangerous.

“Let him go,” Delsin thundered, voice rasping with fury, “he’s an innocent to you, Augustine. He has nothing to do with any of this! This is between you and me, Augustine!” Images were flashing in his mind: the Tribe, and the harm Augustine had caused them, and Reggie, who hadn’t deserved the watery grave he’d been forced to. Too many people had gotten hurt because of him, and he couldn’t—he couldn’t lose Desmond. He didn’t know what was going to happen here, but one thing was for certain: he wouldn’t let them hurt him.

“Only, he is involved in all of this,” Vidic chimed, laughter in his words. Whatever control he had previously lost he since had regained, and arrogance all but oozed from his words, “Miles here didn’t tell you about what he is, did he? He’s hardly some innocent. Mister Miles is an Assassin. Whatever mundane charade he’s been keeping up with you has been just that: a charade. Now, let’s handle this like adults, shall we? Augustine, I have no interest in Rowe here. The second Mister Miles talks, you’re free to do whatever you’d like with him.”

Though Delsin’s attention did not waver from Augustine, he couldn’t help but feel a shiver of disgust from the stranger’s words. He was not disgusted by Desmond—he didn’t care what he’d done with his life, he knew Desmond better than anyone else—but rather by the slimy quality to the words. There was no doubt in his mind that that this was Vidic, the man Desmond had spoken of with soft rage and frightened whispers on the nights they’d spent helplessly tangled together, talking about everything and nothing until they were both raw. Perhaps he should have been worried that Augustine and Vidic were in the same room, but with the power coursing through his veins, beating with each thud of his heart, he instead felt satisfied.

With Vidic here, he’d be able to take out two birds with one stone. Desmond would be safe, and they’d get to go home.

“I don’t care,” Delsin breathed, the chain unwrapping from his wrist with a soft _clink_ as he squared his shoulders, tension in every line of his body, “He’s still an innocent in all of this. This has never been his war, but he got dragged into it because of me. I’m going to make sure he doesn’t regret it!”

Dread twisted Desmond’s stomach as he watched the exchange, the words he so badly wanted to say still stuck in his throat. Delsin was too busy being focused on Augustine to watch Vidic, but he saw it. He saw Vidic’s sudden slight nod, and he saw the DUP agents (who had previously been standing at the doors) suddenly surge forward. With a start, Desmond once again struggled against the ropes binding his wrists, oblivious to the sharp bite against his wrists as they dug deeper and deeper into his skin, his chest heaving as he finally choked down his fear long enough to find his voice.

“Delsin!”

There had been no need for the warning, though. The second Augustine had smiled—a smile that he had come to hate, a smile that meant that someone was going to get hurt—Delsin had unwound the chain from his wrist and lashed out, sparks flying as he whipped around and sent several of the agents stumbling back. Fury guided his actions. Fury over what had happened to his people, fury over what had happened to Reggie, and fury over what had happened to Desmond—this was all his fault, and he’d die before he let someone else he cared about get hurt just because they knew him. Lips curling into a wild sort of grin, Delsin found he couldn’t bite back his laughter, though the sound was far from amused.

Power hummed in his veins, screaming to be used, but he resisted. The agents weren’t enough to break a sweat, and he didn’t want Augustine to be aware of the _ability_ humming deep within him. He wanted to see her shock firsthand when she was defeated, when he shook her hand and took the only power he’d actually _wanted_ from the very beginning. Once he had that, he would finally be able to go home. They would finally be able to go home.

Once they were home, he’d be able to fix some of the damage he had caused. He would never be able to right all of the wrongs this war had inflicted on people, and he would forever live with the guilt of bringing Reggie to Seattle, just he would forever live with that blood on his hands, but he would try.

He’d introduce Desmond to Betty, and if everything went as well as he hoped, he’d invite Desmond to stay with him. While he still wasn’t certain as to whether or not he believed the soul mate theory, there was one thing he knew for certain: having Desmond around had made his life better. Not in an “it’s less fucked up” manner, but more of a “shit is fucked up, but I think I can handle it with him” sort of way. Not to mention he’d been spoiled by early morning cuddles, and being able to roll over and lazily latch against Desmond whenever he wanted. He couldn’t go back to sleeping alone.

With another breath of laughter, Delsin effortlessly took down another wave of DUP agents, that wild grin still on his expression as he briefly raised his attention to Augustine, arching a brow at her as if to ask if this was everything she had to offer, as if he was bored with the current situation.

And then, his breath seemed to freeze in his lungs as fear constricted his chest and his heart lurched to a pained stop: Desmond.

“I told you, Rowe. We can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. It seems you’re set on spilling more innocent blood. This, Miles, is why bioterrorists are dangerous. They don’t care about what happens to others, just as long as they get what they want,” Augustine said with a click of her tongue and shake of her head, “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but I’m afraid I’ve been left with no other choice.”

Turning her head, Augustine glanced at Desmond, a small smirk spreading across her features as concrete suddenly shot through Desmond’s legs.

He had not been expecting the sudden rush of agony. With a sharp intake of breath, Desmond pressed back against the chair, gritting his teeth as he waited for the waves of black to subside, refusing to be dragged into their depths when there was still so much going on. Whatever color he had had left in his face was lost, and his breath was ragged, but he did not cry out.

“I’ve been told that hurts,” Augustine mused as she took a moment to study Desmond, before returning her attention to Delsin, “We can stop this whenever you want, Rowe. You just need to stop being a child, and all of this will be resolved. How much longer do you think it’ll take until he breaks? He’s not as fragile as that one lady from the Tribe, I bet he can take more.”

“All you have to do is tell me where the Apple is, Mister Miles. Then all of this will be finished,” Vidic chimed in, his hand settling on Desmond’s shoulder and squeezing tightly.

With the pain thudding through him, Desmond very nearly puked the second Vidic touched him, utterly repulsed by the hand on his shoulder. With a deep, shaking breath, he straightened his shoulders and sat up in his chair, ignoring the weight of his legs (and ignoring how every little jostle made him want to scream with anguish) and slowly raised his head. He paid Vidic no attention; Vidic was weak, and he wasn’t about to do anything, but rather focused his gaze on Augustine, lips curling into a sneer.

“You keep using that word. Bio-terrorist. Yet, the only terrorist I’ve met is you, Augustine,” Desmond spat, though every word he spoke was a torture to his broken and bruised body, “but somehow, you’re the only one allowed to walk freely around here. Isn’t it funny how that works? If you want to find a terrorist, you just need to look in the mirror.”

“Desmond—“ Delsin shouted, but it was too late. He knew it was too late the second Augustine turned her attention to Desmond, but that didn’t stop him from lurching forward and desperately grabbing at her hand. If he had concrete, he could stop this. He could turn this all around before someone else got hurt, before Desmond smarted off enough to Augustine to annoy her to the point of killing him. He didn’t want to lose Desmond period, but he especially didn’t want to lose him because of a smart comment.

“Cockiness will get you nowhere, Mister Miles,” Augustine said, before she gave another nod in his direction, “I should have known better than to expect reason from a sympathizer. You’re just as bad as the bio-terrorists, but I’m certain a little bit of correctional therapy will get you to see them for what they really are: monsters.”

Once again, white-hot agony shot through Desmond, threatening to consume him and overwhelm him. Once again, though, it failed; he had suffered a pain worse than this once before, and he refused to fall when it was so important that he stay on his feet. Breath catching in his throat, Desmond turned his head and coughed a bit, before he once again raised his head to soundly meet Augustine’s eyes. His body couldn’t take much more of this—he knew that—but he wasn’t willing to stop fighting just yet. Dimly, he was aware of the fact that Vidic was still trying to talk to him, that Vidic was still trying to get his attention, but whatever hold Vidic had once had on him had been lost the second Delsin had shown up.

What both Augustine and Vidic had failed to realize was that Delsin was not a weakness for him, but rather the source of his strength.

In slow motion, Desmond watched as Delsin reacted to the situation. He watched as Delsin lurched forward, and he watched as he became overwhelmed by the sheer amount of DUP agents present. Delsin had touched Augustine, but it had only been for a moment; DUP agents had been on him the second he had moved. Desmond wasn’t certain what he had been trying to accomplish in touching Augustine, but he dimly found himself hoping that Delsin had accomplished his goal. It was hard for him to think straight, though; his thoughts had become fuzzy and disjointed, the screech of the power he’d been hiding overwhelming him.

For a brief moment, their eyes met from across the room once more—Delsin’s gaze was no longer feral, but rather _afraid_ , like a small child desperately looking for comfort after having some sort of nightmare—and for a moment, Desmond found he could only smile. He could see that Delsin was trying to say something, but all the sounds in the room had turned into a meaningless murmur, unidentifiable and undistinguishable.

Slowly, Desmond turned his attention back to Vidic, the small smile lingering on his face as he rolled his shoulders, a heavy sigh seeming to ease out of every crack in his body. “Do you want to know where the Apple is, Vidic?” Desmond questioned, “Is that what you really want?”

“Let me tell you a secret, Vidic: the Apple has been here all along.” Before Vidic could react, Desmond _acted_.

Ever since he had touched the Orb, there had always been a low hum of power moving through him. Previously, he had been afraid of the power. He had been afraid of what it would cost him to use it—and he had been selfish, unwilling to give up his life even if it meant taking out the two people who had started this war. And, had they not brought Delsin into this twisted little game, it was likely he would have never found the strength he needed to use the ability infused into his very being.

Delsin was not his weakness. Delsin was his strength.

That was why, when he had briefly met Delsin’s gaze as Delsin had fallen, as after he had touched Augustine the DUP agents had swarmed on him like locus, he had smiled. This time, he was the one making this choice. This time, he was Desmond, not Subject Seventeen; everything he had done up to this point had been his choice, and while he hadn’t had much time to live in such a manner, he couldn’t say he regretted any of it. Closing his eyes, Desmond found himself reaching for that low hum for the first time, and grapsed it, twisting it until that low hum turned into an angry roar, echoing over the angry screech, as thousands upon thousands of voices suddenly slammed against his skull, consuming him.

The markings—which had previously only extended along his arm and up his shoulder—suddenly began to twist and shift, the circuitry pattern quickly spreading out across his entire body, climbing from his shoulders and up onto his neck where it wrapped itself like a collar, gold circuits brightly pulsing with each thud of Desmond’s heart. Every inch below that thick collar of black was quickly covered, and when he raised his hand (the ropes that had been binding him previously had burnt away the second the circuitry pattern had become activated) even the very tips of his fingers were black. Small smile still on his face, Desmond slowly opened his eyes.

They were entirely gold. It was as if someone had broken open his iris and allowed the previous coloration to spill into the rest of his eye; from the whites of his eye to the pupil itself, everything had turned gold. Raising his head, Desmond turned his attention to Vidic, lips curving into something too savage to be a smile; it was a grin full of sharpened teeth and bloodied promises. Whoever this was—whatever this was—it was not Desmond.

 

**DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY**

“You wanted to know where the Apple was, Vidic,” Desmond murmured, voice broken by accents that did not belong to him, “would you believe me if I told you it’s been here all along?” Vidic would not get a chance to answer that question; the second he finished speaking, the gold patterning Desmond’s body suddenly flared, and the concrete that had previously been buried in his bones came free, only to be quickly slammed into Vidic, impaling him against the wall he had been attempting to use for protection. Nonchalantly, Desmond got to his feet, brushing off the rubble that had come from the impact, and turned his gaze onto Augustine, a soft laugh bubbling from him as he did so.

 

**DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY**

With a curious tip of his head, Desmond took a moment to listen to the voices ringing in his mind, slamming against his skull as though they were threatening to shatter it, a soft sound of amusement once again escaping him. “They don’t like you, Augustine,” Desmond spoke, voice soft, “They know what you are. They know what you’ve done. You dared to act as though judgment would never be passed upon you because of your position of power, but you forgot something: your power cannot best the power of the **GODS**.”

Again, the gold patterns etched across Desmond’s skin flared, glowing brighter with each passing flash. Amused, Desmond watched as Augustine began to attempt to cover herself in concrete, having just watched him impale Vidic. Attention briefly wandered to the cement floor, and then onto the beams surrounding them. If Augustine was so desperate to become enveloped in concrete, he would have to help her out, wouldn’t he? With a laugh—ah, this was so much fun!—Desmond abruptly wretched the cement from the very foundation of the building and used it to completely engulf Augustine, winding it tighter and tighter until she resembled nothing more than an overpriced statue at an art fair.

For a moment, he took a brief break to admire his handiwork, before (in a gesture that very much mimicked the one Augustine had used on him) he shattered the statue, arms crossed against his chest in a bored manner as he watched the pieces fly every which way. It was sort of poetic, wasn’t it? That Augustine had turned so many people to concrete herself, only for that to be her final demise. Lips once again curved into a wild, bloodied grin (as the inside of his mouth was bleeding) as Desmond turned his attention to the DUP agents.

Only, this wasn’t Desmond. If it had been, he would have let them go—the ones that had put up their weapons and fallen to their knees in surrender, anyway. The difference between this being and Desmond was that Desmond was human, and understood the value of life better than anyone else. The true threats had already been eliminated; if he had had a shred of humanity left in him, he would have let it go there.

He didn’t, though. Staring out at the mass of people (some agents had tried to harm him, but their attacks simply bounced off the tight web of circuity covering Desmond’s body) there was only one thought running through Desmond’s head as he looked at each strange face, as he felt the power surge through his entire being.

 

**DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY DESTROY**

One by one, Desmond picked off the guards, until all that was left was a field of corpses. There was only one being that he had spared, simply because he had recognized the face. The being was someone important to the previous host of this body, and try as he may, he couldn’t bring himself to harm him. Slowly, Desmond’s gaze slid over to the only other living being in the area, the need to destroy (the need to judge and punish) still burning in his veins.

And, to his credit, Delsin did not flinch. Instead, he met those golden eyes with a look of shock and horror, disbelief etched in his expression. He did not flinch, though, nor did he look away even when the Apple pulsed and those already bright eyes brightened further. For a few heartbeats, they simply stared at each other, waiting for the next move.

Delsin had no idea what he’d just witnessed. The last thing he remembered was falling, and looking over to meet Desmond’s eyes. He had tried—oh, he had tried—to shout to him. He had tried to tell him to cover his eyes, and he had tried to tell him that he loved him. The last words had stuck in his throat, though, fear constricting his chest as he attempted to tell Desmond something he had realized the second he had come in here, the second he had realized that there was a chance that only one of them would be getting out of this situation. For the first time in his life, though, he had been a coward. Now, as he stared into the eyes of what had previously been Desmond, he hated himself for it.

Whoever this was, it wasn’t Desmond. The man he had fallen in love with was a good man, and he wouldn’t have committed such a senseless slaughter. Desmond was a kind man, always willing to tell a joke, always willing to listen to whatever stupid problem he had had at the time. They had fought a lot (mainly over stupid things, now that he thought about it) and they were both as headstrong as possible, but he had been happy with Desmond. He had found a home with Desmond, a sense of peace that he hadn’t been aware he’d been missing until he spent the first night curled up with him.

And that was why he had to bring him back. While this wasn’t Desmond, there was still a chance that Desmond was in there and fighting to come back (he was stubborn, something he was suddenly grateful for) and he wasn’t about to give up on him. Not while there was still a chance that he was there. They could still go home, right? As long as he got Desmond back, they could go home. Augustine and Vidic had been taken care of. Desmond was safe. As long as he got Desmond back, everything would be okay.

Slowly, Delsin raised his hands, the chain he usually wore around his wrist clattering to the floor with a soft clink. He took a deep breath, before he slowly relaxed his shoulders, attempting to seem as non-threatening as possible. The last thing he wanted to do was to trigger whatever this was into attacking him.

“Desmond,” Delsin breathed, voice shaking, “Desmond. Are you there, Desmond? Can you hear me?” His hands wanted to shake, but he forced them still; this was no time to show weakness. “I know you’re somewhere in there, Desmond. You’re way too stubborn to sit back and let someone else control you, even if that someone else is—whatever you are now. I know you, Desmond.” There was no recognition in the golden gaze of this stranger, but he still stood unharmed. Biting at his lower lip, Delsin slowly took a step forward, fighting the urge to just grab Desmond and run.

If Desmond didn’t remember who he was, he would just have to remind him. For a moment, a slight smile curved Delsin’s lips, and despite the situation, he found himself chuckling.

“You may not remember who you are right now, but I do. I know you, Desmond. I know that you’re in there, and I know that you’re probably yelling like a maniac trying to get yourself back. Everything is okay now, babe. I don’t know how you did what you did, but everything is okay.” He wasn’t about to get mad at Desmond for what had happened and how he hadn’t needed to do that—not right now, when everything was so fragile—but he would later. Later, when he could wrap him into a tight embrace and just cling to him while the horrors of what had happened finally washed over him, when he could finally allow himself to accept the reality of everything that had occurred, and the reality of what would happen next.

“I remember when I first saw you. I’d heard all these stories about this hot shot bartender who made some sort of kick ass drink, and I figured that I would give it a shot. They weren’t wrong about you being hot, but they didn’t warn me about the fact you’d be an asshole,” Delsin scoffed, “You know, I never got that drink from you. How about we go out and celebrate after all of this is over? As in, I get the alcohol and you do your fancy thing and make it good.” Slowly, Delsin took another step towards Desmond, hands still raised, slight smile still on his face as he desperately attempted to connect with Desmond.

“Look at me, Desmond. I’m tired, and I want to go home,” Delsin murmured, allowing some of his guard to fall, allowing his exhaustion to clearly play out on his expression, “but I’m not going home without you. I can’t go home without you, Desmond.” Like it or not, Desmond had become his home. Those words stuck in his throat though, and his chest constricted as he tried to work past the thought that neither of them were going home today. Vidic and Augustine had been eliminated, and while he had never planned on killing Augustine he couldn’t say he was disappointed, and he had the power he needed to heal his people. That was all he had ever needed from her.

 

**PROTECT PROTECT PROTECT PROTECT PROTECT PROTECT**

Whoever this person was, he was not afraid of him. That much Desmond could see in the fact that he continued to advance, despite having seen the absolute annihilation of the others. Whether it was his lack of fear, or the fact that the previous host reacted _strongly_ to the presence of whoever this was, it didn’t know. The power that had previously been roaring had dimmed though, until it was once again little more than a soft hum, a buzz that mimicked the sound of a light bulb going out.

There was no threat to either of them here. Without something to focus on, the presence that had consumed Desmond flickered, its purpose having been fulfilled.

As suddenly as the power had surged, it abruptly withdrew.

All of a sudden, entirely gold eyes reverted back to tired amber, and Desmond lurched forward. Dimly, he was aware of the fact that Delsin was trying to tell him something, but try as he may, he couldn’t focus on those words. The only thing he could hear was a peculiar ringing in his ears. The ringing wasn’t what alarmed him the most, though.

He was bleeding.

Blood coated the inside of his mouth, the metallic flavor dripping down his throat each time he tried to swallow. His nose had started bleeding as soon as the power had diminished as well, dripping onto the floor beneath him. What alarmed him the most, though, was the fact that his eyes were bleeding. He could feel the warmth dripping down his cheeks—it was as if he were crying, but rather than tears, he was crying blood. Quietly, Desmond raised his left hand (as for whatever reason, he couldn’t seem to move his right one) and gingerly touched at his face. When he pulled it back, his fingers were wet with blood.

For a moment, Desmond wanted to laugh. He had been prepared to accept the consequences of his actions, but that didn’t change the fact that the consequences sucked. Taking a breath—this was the first time in a long time he hadn’t heard the thunder of his heartbeat and the silence was ominous—Desmond took a moment to give Delsin a soft smile, warmth in his expression despite the blood running down his face. At this point, he wasn’t certain if he was crying or not as well; he couldn’t tell anymore. All he could hear was a curious ringing in his ears, and all he could see was Delsin. He could see the alarm in Delsin’s face, the fear that was bright in his eyes, and he stepped toward him, wanting to soothe the agony that was in his expression face, desperate to try and make everything okay again, even though it clearly wasn’t.

And then he collapsed.


	7. FFFFFF

Ever since he’d become a conduit, Delsin had always been warm. Whether it was just a few degrees above the normal temperature, or something a bit more drastic, he seemingly always had heat to spare—something Desmond had commented on more than once, before curling up and pressing cold toes against him as they settled down for the night (as he didn’t mind as much as he claimed to; with Delsin’s warmth, they didn’t have to wear much more than a pair of boxers.) It had been a long time since Delsin had felt cold—it had been a long time since he could _remember_ being cold.

The second Desmond started to bleed though, he’d felt like he was freezing. Goosebumps had broke out across the conduit’s usually flushed skin, and his heartbeat—which had been racing in triumph (both for getting Desmond back and for what had happened today)—stuttered to a painful stop, before desperately slamming against his ribs as he tried to comprehend exactly what it was he was seeing.

“Des—“ Delsin managed, eyes widening as he watched Desmond go a shade of white that could only be likened to that of a corpse, “Des—!” He seemed to be rooted in place, panic screaming at him as he scrambled for a way to fix this. They had come so far, this couldn’t be happening! Everything was supposed to be resolved; everything was supposed to be okay! It was only when Desmond suddenly crumpled that he was able to move, his body throwing itself forward and slamming against the floor as he wrapped himself up around Desmond, protecting him from the blow and shielding him from the cold, rough stone floor, which had been ripped apart when Desmond had destroyed Augustine. Above him, he could hear the ominous creak and groan as the building shifted, its foundation having been compromised. There wasn’t much time until it collapsed completely.

“Desmond!” Delsin shouted, though his voice was hoarse and broke on the first syllable. “Desmond! Don’t you—don’t you dare—!” He couldn’t finish his sentence; instead, he choked on the words, unwilling to utter the last part in fear of it coming true: don’t you dare _die on me_. Body trembling, Delsin curled closer against Desmond, ignoring the blood that had splattered all up and down his sweatshirt (as Desmond was still bleeding, crimson streaking down his face, a stark contrast to his pallor), trying to provide some sort of warmth despite the fact it felt like ice was running through his veins instead of blood.

“I can’t lose you too,” Delsin breathed, voice hitching as he frantically tried to wake Desmond. Now wasn’t the time to break down. Not when he still had so much to do, not when—not when there was still a chance that they’d both get to go home. That was what he told himself, anyway, as he quietly counted each rise and fall of Desmond’s chest. That logic wasn’t going to hide the fact his entire body was shaking, though, nor would it hide the fact that his grip on Desmond was likely a little too tight to be comfortable. He had been pretending that he was okay ever since this morning, when he had watched Reggie die; he was going to shatter, and soon.

“Desmond, you fucking idiot, what did you do?” Delsin breathed, “What did you do? Everything was supposed to be okay. Everything was going to be okay, I was—I was—I didn’t come here unprepared. What did you do?” Fear cracked his voice, and he found all he could do was tighten his grip against Desmond, holding him tight against his chest as if the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat would somehow improve the situation. It should have worked. He should have healed him, at least a little, but try as he may, it wouldn’t work.

The one time he needed his abilities the most and they wouldn’t work. He was just as useless as he had been when he was average. He couldn’t do _anything_ for Desmond, even though he _should_ have been able to. Just as he had failed to keep Reggie safe, he had failed to keep Desmond safe—and now he couldn’t even help him after the threat was gone.

What kind of hero was he?

“Des—“ Delsin breathed as he bowed his head and squeezed his eyes shut, the image he so desperately held up shattering right before his eyes. He didn’t care about that, though. All he cared about was getting the both of them out of here, and righting the wrongs he had created.

* * *

  

Where was he?

It was dark; he couldn’t see his hands in front of his face. For a brief moment, Desmond was afraid that he was back in the Animus. That there had been another glitch, but this time, Clay wasn’t around to save him. It was a foolish fear, though—he hadn’t been in the Animus for a handful of months. No, he’d been…he’d been fighting Augustine and Vidic. He’d broken the wall that he’d built against the power that had been in him ever since he touched the Orb, afraid of what would happen if he unleashed the power of the Gods. He had been afraid that he wouldn’t be able to control it. He remembered that much.

So where was he now?

Someone was speaking to him. The voice was faint, dim, just a speck of light against the darkness that had otherwise swallowed him, but it was there. Brow creasing, Desmond found himself latching to that soft voice, attempting to drag himself back out of the darkness, using it as his anchor. It was only when the voice got a little clearer, a little louder, that he realized what it was saying: his name. Over and over again, the voice was crying his name, pleading for him to come back. Surprise jolted through Desmond when he realized this, and his heart twisted when he realized _who_ it was.

Delsin was begging him to come back. Delsin was the one who was crying his name, who was so desperately pleading for him to open his eyes.  Only, his eyes were open. At least, he thought they were. Quiet alarm threaded itself through Desmond, and uncertainty left an unpleasant taste in his mouth. He wanted to scream that he was here, that he could hear him, but try as he may, his voice made no sound in the darkness. He existed, but at the same time, he didn’t. He was a stray, aware of reality, but unable to touch it.

_Delsin._

He couldn’t go yet, though. He had no right to die, not after what he’d done. Delsin needed an explanation about what he’d done in his life, he needed an explanation about what had happened—Delsin needed _him_ and he needed Delsin. He couldn’t die, not when he’d just now gotten the chance to see the world the way it was supposed to. Not when he’d just now gotten the chance to live life the way he wanted to, instead of falling into the mindless routine that had dominated so much of his life.

_Delsin._

Like the Apple had pulsed against his skin, the name pulsed in Desmond’s mind, giving him the energy to get to his feet. With a stagger, Desmond pushed himself forward, arms wrapping around himself and head bowing as he forced himself to continue forward. Every step _hurt_ , and he was so _tired_. A part of him wanted to turn around, to lie back down and take a nap, but there was no doubt in his mind that if he did that, he would never wake again. He couldn’t rest yet, he had to keep going. He had to keep pushing forward.

With each step he took, Desmond became a little more aware of his injuries. He became aware of his cracked and bruised ribs, of the fact that it felt as though he had been burnt from the inside out. His arm—it was getting lighter, he could make out his surroundings a bit better than before—was burnt again, strips of skin having fused against charred bone. Once again, he could see the bones of his fingers, but just as when he had woken up in the cave, he couldn’t feel anything. He couldn’t feel anything, and he was alive.

How much longer would he be alive, though? He had cheated death once before, and he doubted death would be willing to let him go twice.

That wasn’t important. He had to keep pushing forward. He had to keep going. With each step, his body hurt more and became heavier, but Delsin got clearer. He could hear each crack of his voice now, and he could feel him against him, trembling and cold.

Delsin had never been cold before. With a muffled noise of pain, Desmond threw himself forward, reaching with his damaged hand to try and grab the light. His arm was unresponsive, though; no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t move it. Had the situation been different, maybe he would have been alarmed by that fact; right now, he was hardly surprised. His own peril didn’t matter to him. Whether or not he would ever regain function in his arm didn’t matter to him. The only thing that mattered was getting out of here.

He didn’t know how much time he had left, but he could feel the clock ticking down, a steady, ominous tick in the back of his mind, but he couldn’t focus on that. Someone still needed him.

Delsin needed him.

* * *

With a gasp, Desmond opened his eyes, vision blurring as he cringed at the sudden light. Faintly, he could still hear Delsin talking, though his words were garbled and unclear. That was likely his fault, though; it was hard to hear anything other than that ominous tick right now. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on fire, and just breathing was enough to cause agony to shoot through every part of his being. Even Delsin holding him—albeit a touch too tightly—was enough to make him nearly succumb to the darkness again. He had fought too hard to go back now, though. There was still something he needed to do.

“Desmond!” Delsin gasped with relief that was all but tangible in his voice, “You’re—you’re still here.”

Slowly, Desmond focused his vision on Delsin, quietly taking in every little detail he could. He committed Delsin’s messy hair (the beanie had been shoved half off at some point) to memory, just as he committed the shape of Delsin’s lips and color of his eyes to memory. He ached to reach out and touch him, to trace his fingers along the curve of Delsin’s lips, to brush against Delsin’s cheek and tell him that everything was going to be okay, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He couldn’t bring himself to lie to him. He had known from the minute he’d broken that barrier that the consequences of his actions would be great. He had known that he wouldn’t be walking out of here. It was a contract he had signed and accepted, because it had meant that Delsin would be safe.

He didn’t regret keeping Delsin safe. What he did regret was the fact that, in keeping him safe, he was going to hurt Delsin. He was going to hurt him badly, and there was nothing he could about it. No amount of apologizing would make that fact better. Maybe he shouldn’t have ever gotten involved with Delsin, and then he wouldn’t have been able to hurt him. He didn’t regret his choices, though. The short time he had had with Delsin had been the best time of his life, and instead of apologies, a thank you hovered on his lips instead.

“Thank you,” Desmond rasped, voice hoarse and broken, as though he’d spent the past couple of hours screaming, “Thank you, Delsin.”

“What the fuck are you thanking me for?” Delsin questioned, panic twisting his voice. Whatever relief he’d felt when Desmond had opened his eyes had abruptly vanished; he didn’t like where this conversation was going. “What the fuck were you thinking, Desmond?” he questioned, “pulling something like that? Did you know this would happen?” For a moment, he paused, before his voice dropped to something akin to a whisper.

“What happened, Desmond? What was that?”

Wincing as he shifted, Desmond brought a hand up to gently brush against Delsin’s cheek, heart twisting when his fingers came back wet. His throat was dry, and each word he spoke seemed to tear him further apart, but he couldn’t be silent. Each tick of the clock echoed sharply against his mind, reminding him that he was almost out of time. He’d been running for a long time, and he was _tired_.

“The Apple Vidic was talking about,” Desmond whispered, “was an artifact that possessed several unique abilities. Physical manipulation, illusions, and what Vidic cared about the most: thought manipulation. “

“Vidic wasn’t wrong when he said I was an Assassin. What he failed to mention, though, was the fact that he was a Templar. For as long as history traces back, the Assassins and Templars have been at war with each other, each side desperate to possess the Apple. The Assassins fight for the same reason you do, to protect the people and keep their free will. The Templars wanted to use the Apple to control the masses, to use its abilities to keep world peace.” Pausing, a harsh cough ripped through Desmond, and he briefly closed his eyes. A flush had steadily crept up his cheeks now, tinging his still-pale skin. It was getting harder and harder to stay awake, to force each word from his throat, but he had to keep going. He owed Delsin at least that much.

“To keep a long story short, the Apple isn’t the only artifact out there. A couple months ago, I sacrificed myself to keep the rest of the world safe, by touching another one of those artifacts. It should have killed me, but instead, I woke up with the Apple infused in me. Both sides thought I was dead, so I went to try and live a normal life, something I never had the chance to do. And then I met you, and I found myself fighting the same war I had tried so hard to escape. I knew that using the Apple would have consequences, and that’s why I tried so hard to stay out of conflicts. I didn’t want to risk the temptation.” Clearing his throat, a slight smile crossed Desmond’s expression as he studied Delsin. If he had had the energy, he might have laughed.

“I can’t say I regret it, though. Meeting you was the best thing that could have happened to me. These last couple months were all I could have asked for. For once, I got the chance to be my own person. To make my own choices, instead of blindly following orders because I didn’t have any other choice. I have you to thank for that, Delsin, so thank you.  Thank you for everything, you know? I guess I should have said that more often. Probably should have made you a drink at least once, too.” He was rambling, wasn’t he? With a slight shake of his head—which hurt more than he cared to admit, but he dared not make a single sound of pain less Delsin feel bad about something—Desmond made an effort to stay on topic. There was a lot that he wanted to say, and he didn’t have a lot of time to say it.

“Anyway, I knew that—I knew that only one of us was going to get out of here today. I knew that the second you burst in, and I saw Augustine’s face. Whatever she was planning to do to you, I wasn’t about to let it happen. So when the chance came, I acted.” Numbly, Desmond turned and pressed his face against Delsin’s chest, breathing him in.

“Did you really think I just burst in here, unprepared?” Delsin asked, voice cracking as he bounced between anger and agony, “Desmond, you _idiot_. We could have gotten out of here _together._ You didn’t—you didn’t need to do this! I could have taken care of everything, that’s why it took me so long to get here! You didn’t need to do this!” There was no use at yelling at Desmond now, though. Finality had made Desmond’s words heavy, and though he tried to ignore it, Delsin found himself clinging tighter to Desmond and burying his face in his hair, voice muffled as he tried to find the courage to go on. He had to keep speaking—he’d woken Desmond back up once, maybe if he kept a conversation going, he could keep him awake long enough for everything to be okay.

He couldn’t lose him too.

“I’m sorry, Delsin,” Desmond whispered, voice barely audible against Delsin’s chest. It hurt to be held this tight, but he wasn’t going to complain. Instead, he wrapped his arms around Delsin, squeezing him as tight as he could, as if he could prolong the inevitable if he just held Delsin close enough.

“Don’t say that!” Delsin barked, shoulders trembling as he desperately fought against what he knew to be the inevitable, “don’t apologize, Desmond, please.”

“I need you to listen to what I’m about to say, Delsin,” Desmond whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that we never got to finish all those Disney movies you have. I’m sorry that I left dishes in the sink this morning. I’m sorry that we didn’t get a chance to have breakfast together this morning. I’m sorry that you ever got involved with me. I planned on being around longer. There’s a lot that I should have told you before now, but it’s too late. I just—I need you to understand something. I don’t regret meeting you. I don’t regret getting pulled back into this. If I had to do it all over again, I would.”  


“You didn’t have to do any of it, Desmond,” Delsin whispered, “we could have walked out. We could have gone home.” His words fell upon deaf ears, though, and he knew it. No matter what he said about what _could_ have been done, what _had_ been couldn’t be changed.

“If I had to do it all over again, I would,” Desmond whispered, voice growing drowsier as the darkness slowly started to pull him back under. He was losing feeling again, the previous agony that had been coursing through him relaxing its grip until he was little more than curiously numb. Face pressed against Delsin’s chest, Desmond slowly closed his eyes, a sigh escaping him as he finally allowed his body to relax. He wasn’t done yet, but he wasn’t certain how much longer he could continue to fight.

Previously, he had wondered why he’d survived touching the Orb. He had wondered why he’d been given another shot at life, when Juno had made it so clear that touching the Orb would take his life. What he hadn’t realized was that she hadn’t meant immediately. Because at the end of the day, though he had (once again) made the choice, it had been the Orb that had killed him. This time, he had used it to save the man he loved instead of the world, but he couldn’t help but wonder if that was somehow a nobler sacrifice yet. It certainly was a harder one to make.

“Hey, Delsin,” Desmond mused, “can you do me a favor? I want you to remember something. I—remember this. I love you.” It was the first time he had said those words, and he couldn’t help but regret that it would be the last time he said them. It was only now that he realized that he should have said them before, when he had realized it during those lazy mornings they’d spent cuddled up together. “I love you,” Desmond repeated as he drew in one last ragged breath, before he let out a quiet exhale.

He was tired, and he didn’t have the energy to fight anymore. For a brief moment, Desmond tightened his arms around Delsin, rubbing his back with his good hand—the black coloration that had colored his skin was gone, though the circuitry pattern had left fierce scars against his skin—and the burn that he had seen both in the darkness and when he had woken up in the cave was back. It was how he’d known that he wasn’t going to walk away from this. 

“I—“ Whatever Delsin had been about to say was abruptly cut off, as not only had Desmond gone still, but something had changed.

His world had gone gray. Previously vibrant colors had been replaced with grays. Stomach twisting, panic rooted itself deep within Delsin, his heart stuttering as he desperately shook Desmond’s shoulders. There was no response, though—just as he knew there wouldn’t be. Again and again though, he tried to wake Desmond. Dimly, he was aware that someone was sobbing. He didn’t realize it was him, until he felt the hot trail of tears streak against his cheek, burning against his cold body. It had started raining again, but he couldn’t feel it—he couldn’t feel anything beyond the coldness of Desmond’s body in his arms, and the hot tears streaking down his face.

“I love you too,” Delsin whispered, finally able to say the words he’d been trying so hard to voice this entire time.

But it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so we've reached the end of to love a stray. to everyone who has stuck with me since the beginning, i wanted to say thank you; your comments (though often not responded to, they encouraged me to continue and often made my day), kudos, and general encouragement are what made this story and conclusion possible. and to those who have just picked up the story: thank you for finishing it! i never expected to get so many hits, and it makes me happy that this fic has gotten the attention it has, as this pairing means the world to me. 
> 
> thank you all for your continued support, and i hope you enjoyed everything tlas had to offer!
> 
> des.


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